


you'll never walk alone

by swatkat



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: (Hook is a ghost), (Please don't expect compliance with JKR canon), (sort of), Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, F/F, TW for some context-specific ableism, TW: Leopold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-21 06:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swatkat/pseuds/swatkat
Summary: Emma Swan’s Quidditch career, despite her brief and remarkable stint with the US national team, went nowhere. Hired as the coach of the hapless Storybrooke Sirens by none other than the Regina Mills (also known as the Evil Queen in certain quarters), Emma is expected to perform a miracle – or at least, ensure that the Sirens don’t end up at the bottom of the league yet again. It doesn’t help that she and Regina really don’t see eye to eye on most things, or that Regina Mills is really attractive.The story of a ragtag team of underdogs, two women with pasts to atone for, and a fairytale.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supernana494](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernana494/gifts), [kalindasharmas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalindasharmas/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You'll never walk alone : Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11930223) by [supernana494](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernana494/pseuds/supernana494). 



> 1) Apologies to Liverpool fans for stealing your song for my title. It's a great song. Apologies, also, to the many journalists who waxed poetic about the 2016 EPL. 
> 
> 2) This story is not compliant with JKR's canon, not in the least because of the way she writes the way Quidditch is played. It's clearly written by someone who doesn't follow sports very much, and this story wouldn't work if I considered it the same way. Neither does her US-centric universe make sense - I mean, how on earth can there possibly be only one wizarding school in the entirety of North America? That's pretty much impossible. 
> 
> 3) Supernana has made amazing art for this story. Please go tell them how amazing their work is!
> 
> 4) This story doesn't exist without Maia. I love you and miss you, please take good care of yourself. <3

 

*

 

_“Once upon a time, long long ago —”_  

_“It wasn’t_ that _long ago, Mom,” Henry interrupts._

_“Alright, alright,” Regina says in mock-surrender. “Once upon a time,_ not _so long ago, our country was host to the greatest show known to wizarding kind: the Quidditch World Cup. Your_ abuelo _and I, of course, were very excited. We were going to watch as many games as possible.”_

_“When will we host the World Cup again?”_

_“In another twelve years or so, if things go according to plan. Now, do you want to hear the story or not?”_  

 

*

 

Regina doesn't expect to be able to attend any of the games in person. Leopold makes a show of attending every World Cup, as though it’s sufficient to mask his absolute incompetence at the helm of one of America’s best-performing Quidditch teams (THE MOST EXCITING TEAM THIS SIDE OF THE ATLANTIC, if you ask the _US Quidditch Weekly_ ). 

The very thought of being associated with _that_ , of showing up by his side like a pathetic, simpering trophy wife, along with that spoilt brat of his while they fawn over the little family unit and splash images of manufactured happiness all over the papers — it’s enough for her to wish to sink into the ground and disappear forever.

In another life, Regina had dreamed of playing Quidditch: of being a star, and earning enough laurels for her mother to be proud of her.

Mother, of course, had other plans.   

Now she keeps a careful distance from Leopold and his posturing, preferring to make herself invisible. Once the financial scandals break, Leopold White will be _finished_. And Regina will watch him crash and burn, and she’ll laugh and laugh and laugh. 

His illness is like an unexpected gift. Perhaps it is fate itself, smiling upon Regina for _once_. Perhaps it’s all the drinking, who can tell? Regina is not about to look a gift hippogriff in the mouth. 

She takes great pleasure in informing Snow that she will, in fact, be traveling with Daddy as her companion, relishing the way her face falls. She had no doubt imagined some sort of a grand tour of the country — the magnificent debutante with Regina as her obedient nanny. 

“Your father could use your company at a time like this,” Regina says, placing a hand on her shoulder, watching the way her eyes brighten. “I’ll do my best to be his representative.” 

“Yes, of course,” Snow agrees, too dull to see through Regina’s demure expression. Or perhaps she just can’t imagine anyone hating her saint of a father, least of all Regina.  

It’s a whirlwind after that, city after city and stadium after stadium, absolute madness and joy of the sort she hasn’t experienced since her school days. The US National Quidditch Team is in fine form, and _that_ is the icing on top of this already unforgettable world cup. Regina soaks it all in, the passion and _hope_ , the joy in her father's eyes every time an underdog shows unexpected class, or when an established master of the sport lives up to expectations. 

The breakout star of the tournament is the rookie US Seeker, one Emma Swan. 

Swan was the surprise selection, someone almost _no one_ knew. She emerged out of nowhere and won _everyone’s_ hearts, and after watching her play against Nigeria in the opening game of the tournament, Regina can understand why.

Swan flies like no one else, as though she was born for this. She performs the trickiest moves with the grace of the bird whose name she bears. There is, above all, an infectious joy to her game  — which, despite the occasional tendency to show off for the gallery, is _impossible_ to not be charmed by. 

Regina is an unabashed fan.

 

* 

_"Wait, so you watched her play_ all _the games?" Henry says, awestruck. He hasn't looked at her like this in a long time, and Regina revels in every second of it._

_"That's right," she tells him, preening. "I did."_

_"But did you see her catch the Snitch in the semis?"_

_"Of course I did," Regina says. "I've never seen anything like it."_

_"But we still lost," Henry says, his face falling._

_"We did, yes."_

_"That sucks," Henry says, burrowing deeper into her arms._

_Regina breathes in his sweet, little boy scent, relishing the softness of his too-long hair against her skin and says, "Do you know what your_ abuelo _used to say?" She hasn't spoken about Daddy to him in a while — hasn't spoken about Daddy at all, in fact. "He used to say that in sports, one team wins, and the other team loses. And sometimes, the team that loses is your team, and that sucks a lot. But you have to learn your lessons from it and_ persevere _. Do you understand that?"_

_"I guess," Henry says, still dejected about a game lost long before he was born._

_Her father would have been happy to meet a grandson so invested in the sport, Regina knows it, regardless of whether or not he was actually able to play it._  

 

*

 

They follow the US team from group stage to the quarters, and then, finally, _inexplicably_ , to the semi-finals. Against Japan, no less — three time world champions and tournament heavyweights.

It’s the best the US team — still a novice in world Quidditch — has ever performed in almost a hundred years. It’s a run no one expected, least of all Regina. 

The run comes to an end, as all fairy tales must. The top-ranked Japanese team is clinical in its demolition of its opponents, but Emma Swan remains the talk of the town, thanks to her absolutely improbable capture of the Snitch. It earns her a standing ovation, and later, a felicitation from the Japanese Emperor’s special envoy.

It earns her the approval of Regina’s father, who says, “She knew we were never going to catch up,” a proud smile on his face. “She wanted to end the match on her own terms.”   

And Regina, for all that she _hates_ the disappointment of crushing defeat, gets this. After all, hasn’t her entire life been one long attempt to just end things on her own terms?

 

* 

 

This is the part she _doesn’t_ tell Henry:

The absolute _rush_ of watching Emma Swan soar, her hair a golden halo. The way her face grows warm every time Daddy mentions Emma Swan in innocuous, everyday conversation. The outrageous amount she pays for the special world cup edition of the Emma Swan Quidditch card. The number of times Swan pops into her mind unbidden, and the unsteady beat of Regina’s traitorous heart.

It wouldn’t be a world cup if Regina _didn’t_ end up with yet another sporting infatuation, she supposes.

It's embarrassing, but that does not stop her from tracking Swan down in the team hotel. She brandishes Leopold's American Quidditch Association card like a weapon and blazes past the bemused security wizards without stopping to offer an explanation. Just an autograph, that's all she wants. Regina is certainly _not_ so juvenile as to abuse her husband’s position in the Quidditch fraternity just so that she can gaze upon Emma Swan in flesh and blood.     

Swan is a morose figure in one corner of the swanky hotel bar, downing Firewhisky with single-minded attention. The bartender keeps a fierce eye on anyone attempting to invade her privacy, but Regina is more than equipped for the intervention, slipping a wad of cash in her general direction as she hops onto the bar stool next to Swan.

Up close, Emma Swan is nothing like the larger-than-life figure Regina has come to know. She's… young. Younger than Regina, definitely.

Regina takes a deep breath and says, "Can I have an autograph?"

Swan looks up from her drink, and — Yes. Up close, Emma Swan is nothing like the larger-than-life figure Regina has come to know. Her eyes are very green as she looks Regina up and down, her lips curling into an appreciative smile. "Only if I can buy you a drink first," Swan says. Regina feels herself flush, despite her best intentions otherwise.

They drink in silence, Swan back to slumping over her glass like she didn't just offer to buy Regina alcohol for no reason at all. "You played well," Regina says eventually, when the silence begins to get to her.

_That_ gets her a reaction, because Swan turns to glare at her. "We still lost," she says, and slams a fist on the bar table. "I _hate_ losing."

"I don't know of anyone who enjoys it, to be perfectly honest," Regina says, her voice even. She takes another sip of her drink.

Swan looks at her, skeptical. "No hope speech? Nothing about how we won hearts, even if we didn't win?"

"No," Regina says with a shrug.

"I _like_ you," Swan tells her. There is _no_ reason why Regina's face should grow warm at the frank appraisal, no reason at all.

"Another?" Swan says when Regina places her empty glass down with a _clink_. "It's on me." She sounds hopeful, as though she's actually looking forward to spending time with Regina. She's also, of course, inebriated.

It's tempting to give in, to listen to the quickening beat of her heart and let the evening take its course. Whatever it might be.

"I should get going" is what Regina says instead, regret weighing down her words. She places the Quidditch card and a quill in front of Swan.

"Right," Swan says, her face falling. "So should I, I guess. I should sleep."

She signs the card with a flourish. Their fingers brush as she hands the card over to Regina.

"Always a pleasure to be in the company of such a beautiful woman," Swan says with a roguish wink.

 

***

 


	2. Chapter 2

_The crowds still filed in, greeting each new season with optimism, but all too soon the realization dawned that the cheers from the stands were for nothing - everything the team once embodied had been hollowed out from the inside, leaving only a desiccated red and gold husk._

_\- Storybrooke Mirror, 2008_

_When Marian [Alvarez] first approached me, I honestly thought it was a mistake. I’ve never played Quodpot in my life! (laughs) I didn’t really follow Quidditch here, you know? Turns out the league is pretty great, though. I’m happy to be in Storybrooke. I think we’re gonna do great._

_\- Yasmin, Goalkeeper, Storybrooke Sirens_

 

“She’s late, Marian,” Regina says, for what must be the thirtieth time in the past hour. She can feel the fury beginning to rise, threatening to dismantle her carefully put together facade of calm.

“I know, Regina,” Marian replies, for what must also be the thirtieth time in the past hour. She’s chewing on the edge of her plastic straw in a way that Regina finds particularly irritating, but perhaps not as irritating as that infuriating serenity of hers. Regina’s itching with the need to move, to grab that irresponsible blonde harpie by the scruff of her neck and —

“Rip her throat out?” Marian raises an eyebrow.

Regina hadn’t meant to say that out loud. And there’s Marian, sucking on her empty straw and honest-to-god _slurping_ like she’s Henry minus manners, and not her usually competent General Manager.

“You said she was interested,” Regina says, pointing an accusing finger at Marian. “You _talked_ me into this _meaningless_ exercise and now she isn’t even _here_ —”

She cuts herself short when she realizes she’s clutching the half-empty glass of Firewhisky in her hand, poised to throw it at the nearest surface and make an unholy scene. It’s an old, almost unconscious gesture that should be beneath her by now. _Damn it_.  

“We’ll give it ten more minutes,” Marian says, soothing, as though Regina’s a skittish colt that needs particular care. “Okay? You can yell at me after. Throw a glass or two if that makes you feel better.”

“Okay,” Regina says. Her hand is shaking slightly when she puts the glass back on her desk, careful.

It’s _stupid_. Marian’s optimism has the potential to be… infectious, and Regina, fool that she is, allowed herself to swayed in favor of that washed-up former star slash pathetic waste of ability.

It’s stupid that she allowed this harebrained scheme of Marian’s to see the light of the day, stupid that she spoke to Mal and the rest of the financiers about it. Stupid that a part of her had hoped for, for — That a part of her _hoped_.

Cruella will have a field day with this one.

She clenches her fist and takes a deep breath. “Well,” she tells Marian, who’s _still_ slouching in her chair. Regina draws herself up very straight. “I think it’s safe to say that your attempt to think _out of the box_ is a miserable failure, so I say we go with our initial list of candidates and —”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, because the door crashes open with a bang loud enough to have both of them reaching for their wands and pointing it at their intruder. Who, in fact, has the gall to raise her arms as though in surrender and _smile_ , oh-so-winsome. “Hi,” Emma Swan says. “Sorry I’m late. My car broke down.”

“You’re a witch,” Regina says, a little too dumbfounded to come up with a sharper retort.

“Yeah,” Swan agrees, still smiling. She isn’t dressed like a witch, Regina notes. And while Regina isn’t one to dispute the charms of no-maj clothing — her own wardrobe has an extensive and ever-expanding collection — she would have hoped Emma Swan had the decency to wear appropriate attire for a _job interview_ . Instead, she’s in a pair of jeans and a godawful red leather jacket. _And_ she’s _late_. “I just prefer to drive,” she says. “And, uh, sorry about barging in like that.”

Marian, thankfully, rises to the task, before Regina can say something scathing. “I’m glad you could make it, Emma,” she tells her. “Storybrooke’s not as old-fashioned as it used to be when it comes to non-magical technology. I’ll make sure you get some help with your car.”    

She turns to Regina with a _look_ , one that very clearly means _let me handle it_ . It's only supreme self-control — and the fact that she’s rather proud of Storybrooke’s transformation from an isolated magical community of no significance to whatever they are today — that allows Regina maintain her poise and not _ruin_ this session even before it starts. She offers Emma Swan her hand, a practised smile on her face. “Regina Mills,” she tells her. “A pleasure to have you here.”

Swan fumbles a little before taking her hand in an admittedly firm grip. And then she says, her smile growing impossibly wider, “Emma Swan. I was a huge fan of the Misthaven Wanderers back in the days.” She doesn’t seem to notice Regina’s hand grow limp in her own, or the way the whole room seems to grow colder, as though someone’s just placed a freezing spell in it.

She snatches her hand back with an icy, “Take a seat, please,” not caring how that might make her sound.

Swan is a either a fool with little control over her mouth, or someone with a far more nefarious agenda. Perhaps she’s been paid off, perhaps she has an axe to grind, or, or some sort of a plan to undo _everything_ Regina’s worked for _so hard_ over the years. She has to nip this in the bud. She has to figure out who Swan might be working with, if she’s actually a _spy_ of some sort sent here to humiliate her —

“Yes! Take a seat, Emma!” Marian says, cutting short her increasingly panicked inner monologue.

Swan, finally, seems to sense the tension in the room — or perhaps she’s that good an actor, says a little voice inside Regina’s head — and appears a little bewildered by it, but she does as she’s told.

It is impossible that she could be that… _innocent_ . No matter what she may have convinced Marian, no one _without_ an agenda would just bring up Regina’s past indiscretions in casual conversation.

“Shall we talk?” Marian’s now beginning to sound a little desperate. “Regina?”

And thus begins one of the longest hours of Regina’s life.

*

The problem with Emma Swan is that she’s good.

It is… difficult to push aside the unpleasant thoughts that arise every time she glances at Swan, sprawled — yes, _sprawled_ — on a chair Regina _knows_ is uncomfortable. She made sure of it.

Most people are careful around Regina. Out of fear, of course. She’s cultivated that air of invulnerability that comes with power alone. And when they whisper behind her back, Regina’s learned to let it slide, to not go after them with all her might and _destroy_ them without a smidgen of remorse. Most people who aren’t Emma Swan, that is. It’s _suspicious_.

Her hand itches to reach for the vial of Veritaserum she keeps at hand, though Marian would disapprove.  

There is no denying, however, that Swan is good. If they’re being set up by Regina’s enemies, it’s an excellent plan.

Swan has her coaching certificates in order, which is unexpected. Regina had imagined a no good washed-up former star attempting to coast on reputation alone. Swan has come _prepared_ , armed with facts and mostly satisfactory answers to every question that Marian throws at her. It shows a certain degree of professionalism.

This is _not_ to say Regina _isn’t_ suspicious of Swan’s motives.

“Do you think you’ll be a good fit with us, Emma?” Marian asks. “The Sirens, as you know, are yet to perform to the fullest of our potential in the League Championship, and we feel that it is time we —”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Regina finds herself saying, suddenly impatient. She leans forward in her seat, looking Emma Swan in the eye. Her eyes, Regina thinks abstractly, are very bright and very green. “We barely escaped relegation last year, and the year before that. And this is after making it back to the League Championship after nearly two decades. This cannot go on. We _need_ to perform, and we need someone who understands that. _Do_ you understand that, Miss Swan?”

If she sounds menacing — albeit a shade short of Evil Queen — then it is absolutely intentional, though Marian would, no doubt, disapprove of _this_ as well. Marian can be rather disagreeable about these things.

And Emma Swan, damn her, _actually_ smiles. It’s a broad, genuine smile. And then she says, slow and deliberate, “Give me a Seeker and a Goalkeeper, and I’ll give you the league.” She holds Regina’s gaze, still smiling.

“That’s an audacious claim to make, Miss Swan,” Regina says. Outrageous, in fact. And just the brand of brazen confidence that made Emma Swan one of the best Seekers of her generation — that is, before she threw away her career and faded into oblivion.

And pertinent, because they’ve been on the lookout for the right Seeker for the past two years. Damn it.

“I like a challenge,” Swan says with a shrug. “Don’t you?”

*

Marian is smug afterwards, looking at Regina like she _knows_ something. Her eyes have that familiar gleam — the one that means she’s delighted to have proved Regina wrong. She takes far too much pleasure in that sort of a thing.

“Admit it,” she tells Regina. “You liked her.” She also plants herself on Regina’s desk, in a manner she knows annoys Regina.

“Get off my desk,” she says mildly, and chooses to overlook the way Marian simply makes herself more comfortable. There’s a more important matter at hand, namely, hiring a competent coach for the Sirens, _before_ the player transfers begin in earnest.

Planning isn’t Regina’s best suite. Marian does the pondering and the planning, and Regina takes charge. Regina _acts_ , at times on instinct, plunging headfirst into things without second thought. It had become clear that Robin Hood wasn’t going to lead the Sirens to League Championship glory anytime soon, and so she fired him, six months into his contract. It’s the sort of thing that’s earned her the reputation of being a ruthless administrator. Well, that, and her history at Misthaven.

Regina’s good at slash and burn. It’s what comes _after_ that is particularly hard. She wasn’t made for building things.

“It could have been worse,” Regina admits eventually, because there’s no point in lying to Marian about this. She knows her all too well.

“But?” Marian prompts. “There’s a but in there, right?”

Regina runs an anxious hand through her hair. She doesn’t know how to say it  — doesn’t know how to articulate the way her pulse quickens and her skin crawls at the memory of the casual way in which Emma Swan spoke of her time in _that place_ , among _those people_.

_A huge fan_ , she’d said, as though Regina doesn’t have nightmares about _fans_ picketing outside her house and following her every move. _Passionate_ fans, jeering and abusing her every time she dared to step outside, calling for the head of the Evil Queen.

Those vile creatures deserved what they got, and Regina doesn’t regret a minute of it.

“Regina,” Marian says, placating. “She’s _Emma Swan_. We should consider ourselves lucky that she’s interested.”

And _that_ rubs her the wrong way. It doesn’t matter how famous Emma Swan may have been — the Sirens are important. The Sirens _matter_.

“Are you suggesting that this job isn’t _good enough_ for your precious Emma Swan?” Regina says, suddenly furious.

Marian furrows her brow. “No,” she says, firm, “I’m not saying that, Regina, don’t be ridiculous. I’m saying that she can be very good for us, and we should take that into serious consideration.”

“She has little experience —”

“So did Serafina Sylborn when she took the All-Stars job,” Marian fires back. She isn’t one to back down so easily.  

“What are you, an expert in Divination now?”

“No, but I’m _trying_ to do what’s best for our team, and I want you to do the same instead of fixating on a throwaway comment that meant nothing!”

Regina wants to retort. She wants lash out and say something suitably scathing, but Marian isn’t _wrong_.  

She wasn’t made for building things, but with Marian, she’s always tried to do what is best for the team. The Sirens come first.

“Or we could bring in the board,” Marian says with a shrug. “Let’s see what Zelena has to say, shall we?”

It’s a low blow, and Marian knows it. She grins at Regina, unrepentant.

The five member board does not, technically, need to vote on the selection of a new coach, but Marian is well within her rights to call for a board meeting on occasion of a deadlock. And _no one_ — least of all Zelena, currently on a continental tour — wants that.

“I’m getting Sidney to run a background check on her. Who knows what she’s been upto in all these years,” Regina says with as much disdain as she can manage. Marian smiles at her like they’ve won the Quidditch World Cup.  

*

Henry is sullen and largely silent during dinner, and Regina, like a lot of their time together now, is forced to fill in the tense, awkward silence with a steady prattle that Henry sees right through. He knows it’s a charade, _knows_ that his mother doesn’t know how to talk to him or make things better between them, and he responds in kind in a way that only young children can.

She should have invited Marian over — Henry tends to thaw a bit with his favourite adult around — but she had wanted, _for once_ , to be able to have dinner and a conversation with her son without needing Marian as a crutch.

Instead, Henry pushes his vegetables around his plate and makes a half-hearted attempt at eating the basil chicken she knows he loves. Regina clutches her wine glass a bit too tightly, wishing, more than ever, she could go back in time and fix things somehow.

She wasn’t made for building things, but for Henry, she has to _try_.

“Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “Marian and I interviewed someone for the coaching position today. It went… better than I expected. Although she was late.” There is, of course, no need for him to hear about the _rest_ of the unpleasantness.

Henry’s response is a grunt that she should reprimand him for, but instead she says, “Her name is Emma Swan. She was quite famous in her time, but that was —”

“Emma Swan, really?” Henry says. He’s looking at her for the first time in the entire evening. Regina nearly drops her fork in surprise.

“Yes, have you heard of her?” she says, careful to keep her tone neutral.

“ _Seeking Seekers_ says that she’s the greatest Seeker of her generation though she never got the recognition she deserved,” he tells her, in the precious, precocious way of his. He’s trying to sound nonchalant, Regina can tell, but there’s genuine interest in his voice.    

“Greatest might be an overstatement,” Regina says lightly, “but she was very good.”

“She caught the Snitch in the World Cup semi-final!” Henry says. “If it weren’t for the poor refereeing, the United States team would have made it to the final, for the first time in a century!” There’s no mistaking the quiver of excitement in his voice now, or his righteous indignation about a match played and lost before he was born.

“Your _abuelo_ and I were there when it happened,” Regina tells him with a smile.

“ _Really_?” The word comes out as an adorable squeak.

“Yes, really. I’ll tell you about it if you finish everything on your plate,” she says, indulgent. The words slip out without second thought, _natural_ in a way they haven't been for over a year. She tenses, waiting for him to lash out, but for once, Henry does as he's told.  

He doesn’t shy away when she sits next to him on his bed and he doesn’t flinch when she carefully puts a hand on his, gently rubbing his skin with the pad of her thumb.

By the time she finishes the story with a dramatic flourish, putting on more of a show than usual, Henry is tucked comfortably against her. Regina feels like she can breathe after a long time.

“So are you gonna hire her?” Henry says, half-asleep. “It'd be kinda cool if she came to Storybrooke.”

“It’s not a done deal yet,” Regina says truthfully, running a soft hand through his hair.  

“Do you think I can get her autograph?”

“We can definitely do that, yes,” she tells him with a smile. She can give him this, if not the reassurance he truly seeks.

She watches him fall asleep, drawing him closer still and unwilling to let the evening end. “Sleep well, my little prince,” she murmurs, and kisses him softly on the forehead.  

*

Somewhere in Regina’s vault, among a million other pointless knick knacks, lies a wooden box. It bears nothing valuable — at least, nothing that would be considered valuable by most people, except perhaps die-hard collectors of obscure Quidditch memorabilia. It bears a slim chocolate frog card, _Quidditch World Cup (1994) Special Edition_ emblazoned on one side and Emma Swan’s face on the other.

The figure on the card is much younger than the woman Regina met today, younger and carefree. She still has some of that cockiness, Regina thinks. _Some_ of the infectious charm that made Emma Swan so popular in her time.

The figure winks when Regina picks the card up, reading the words she had written more than a decade ago,

_To the beautiful woman who hates losing,_

_Your fan,_

_Emma Swan._

Regina has had no use for it in a long time.

  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual gay inspiration for the card:


	3. Chapter 3

_They were the most exciting team in North America, serious challengers to the Fitchburg Finches - and even to the formidable Hollyhead Harpies, if their performance in their maiden World Quidditch League was any indication. Then the implosion began. Now, one question remains - just how did the Misthaven Wanderers fall so far, so quickly? With unprecedented access, award-winning journalist August Wayne Booth follows the labyrinthine money trail and gives the definitive account of what went wrong._

_-_ _Quidditch Quarterly, September 1998_

_“Will the sense of loss ever truly go away? I can’t say. But we’re trying to build something here, David and I. We have a loyal fan base that has supported us through every step. Here at the Misthaven Wanderers, we run on hope. That’s all I can say about this.”_

_\- Snow White, President, Misthaven Wanderers_

 

Emma Swan moves to Storybrooke on a fairly unremarkable summer morning.

The Bug draws a few curious stares from the locals, as it always does whenever Emma’s in a magical township (and a few no-maj ones as well, if she’s being honest). Emma pays them no heed. Her broom’s stashed in the trunk along with a small suitcase that bears her precious few possessions, including faded Quidditch robes she hasn’t had the heart to throw away.

Storybrooke is small, even by the standards of magical settlements in America. Emma spots a few cars here and there, a couple of businesses that do not seem averse to making use of computers. Most of the town, however, remains unchanged from what Emma remembers of it: slow, sleepy, hopelessly antiquated. There’s more wizarding robes here than Emma’s seen in hipster magical enclaves in Boston, as though the last twenty years worth diplomacy and subsequent influx of no-maj fashion has passed Storybrooke by.

The Sirens, back then, were a joke. Emma caught the Snitch about forty minutes into the game. The Warriors were promoted to the League Championship that year, Emma made the national team, and the rest, as they say, is history. Or old news — depending on where you’re coming from. The Sirens, _now_ , are a force to be reckoned with, and the only joke is Emma’s career graph.

She pulls up in front of Granny’s Diner, as per Marian Alvarez’s instructions, and takes a deep breath.

This is going to be... something.

*

The elderly witch at the counter — possibly _the_ Granny in question, though Emma doesn’t risk calling her that — quirks a sceptical eyebrow at her when she asks for Marian Alvarez. “She mentioned you’d be here,” she says. “You the new coach?”

“Yes ma’am,” Emma says with what she hopes is a winning a smile. “That’s me.”

“Well, you better be good,” says the woman. She does not sound particularly enthused. “We’ve been waiting for a long time.”

“I’ll do my best,” Emma says. It isn’t as confident as she’d been at the interview. But then, she didn’t actually expect to be hired, regardless of Marian’s professed enthusiasm.

“We have a room for you until your living situation is taken care of. Let’s hope you last that long.”

It’s singularly unnerving, in a way that even the actual job interview was not. Sure, she got off on the wrong foot with the boss but that was _not_ her intention. She’s played the Wanderers a couple times — an unpredictable powerhouse of a team even when they were hurtling towards financial disaster. Emma really _was_ a fan, followed their miserable relegation from the league and the dark, dark days of Regina Mills’ final few months with the team, before she left for good.

It’s probably not something she likes being reminded of, now that Emma thinks about it. The papers went _wild_ , and the fans, well — that part Emma understands. Regina Mills isn’t the only one with a history of failure.

She intends to get along, she does. To be less _difficult_ and _temperamental_ and all the words the press liked to throw around when she was still relevant.

The weight of expectations is beginning to sink in. Storybrooke is used to disappointment. It’s a town that’s been waiting, the memory of the good old days a faint, dusty echo in the hearts of old-timers like the woman behind the counter. There’s a yellowed clipping of the _Storybrooke Mirror_ framed on the wall, the word **CHAMPIONS!** standing out like a desperate shout out to the past. There’s an image of a man lifting the trophy over and over again, his smile wide and joyous. It’s Henry Mills, of course, Storybrooke’s most (only) successful Quidditch captain and the father of Regina Mills, now Emma’s boss.

Perhaps that’s why Regina came here, after everything.

And Emma, well. She’s here now. If this is her last stand, she might as well make it count.

*

Granny — “Mrs. Lucas, but you can call me Granny,” she told Emma — makes a surprisingly good cup of coffee, as it turns out. It’s been awhile since Emma’s lived in a town this small, and she had her concerns.

She skims through old copies of the _Storybrooke Mirror_ , skipping the parts where they discuss the Sirens’ new coach. She doesn’t want to know what they think about her.

Lancelot’s a particular favourite, which is unsurprising. Storybrooke hasn’t had an international star — albeit ageing, and no longer fit for most of the competitive leagues in Europe — of his stature since the time of Nicolas Costa, and that was a decade ago and did _not_ end well. There are countless photographs of him waving, of him shirtless, of him wearing the Sirens’ colours, along with gushing puff pieces about his daily skincare regime and his favourite broom. There’s a couple with him and Merlin, the rookie Beater on loan from the Chudley Cannons.

Emma’s impressed that the Sirens managed to sign them both, what with their track record and fairly limited budget. But then, she gets the feeling that Regina Mills means business.

Regina’s a frequent on the pages of the _Mirror_ , as well. There are gossipy pieces about her love life that Emma absolutely does not waste her time reading (Robin Hood, really?), focusing instead on the somewhat more substantial pieces about her grand vision for the Sirens.

Emma can’t help but linger on the photograph of her with an apple in her hand, smiling at the camera like she wants to devour it whole.

She perhaps lingers a little too much, because she nearly jumps out her skin and spills her coffee all over the paper when someone says, “Are you Emma Swan?”

She fishes out her wand and mutters a quick _Tergeo_ before turning her attention to the person next to her. A small person — a white kid with a pair of bright eyes and messy brown hair that falls over his forehead.

“Uh, yes?”

“May I have your autograph?” the kid says, thrusting out a Quidditch card in her direction. It’s an Emma Swan card, of all things. Her younger self winks at her, before performing a piece of complicated jugglery with the Snitch.

“Sure, kid,” Emma says, charmed in spite of herself. She didn’t know they still made these — at least, not with her face on them. “Do you have a quill I could use?”

“Here,” he says, extending a red-and-gold _Storybrooke Sirens_ quill at her.

“Quite a fan, huh?” Emma says, signing her name with a flourish. Autographs were commonplace when she was a Quidditch player of any worth, but that was in another time, and Emma’s hardly the girl she used to be.

There’s something to be said for the boy’s enthusiasm, however. He slides into the booth and sits facing her, practically vibrating with excitement. “I have all your cards! And I’ve read all about you in _American Quidditch Through the Ages_ and _Seeking Seekers_!”

She’s been glad for the anonymity, the simple pleasure of walking down the streets of no-maj Boston without the cautious glances and the whispers — the curious _isn’t that Emma Swan?_ , or the mocking _look it’s Runaway Swan_ . There was a time when the whispers haunted her dreams, vicious, a thousand voices telling her how _useless_ and _pathetic_ she was until she was terrified of sleeping.   

There’s none of that in the boy’s smile, nothing but innocent hero worship. No one’s looked at Emma like that in a very long time.

“So how old are you?” she asks him, settling for the most obvious bit of small talk.  

“Ten,” he tells her.

“Ten! That’s a good age!” she says. It wasn’t, not for Emma, but then, what did Emma know of a normal childhood in her seventh no-maj foster home? Her magic was an anomaly, something to hide and be afraid of. No one told her she would receive a letter from the fourth largest magical school in North America on her eleventh birthday.

This boy, at least, looks well fed. His nails are neatly cut and his robe pressed and clean. He’s wearing regular no-maj clothing underneath —  a little unexpected, considering the rest of Storybrooke. It’s as clean and neatly pressed as the rest of his clothing. His sneakers are positively shiny. Someone cares how this kid appears before the world “Do you wanna play Quidditch someday?” she asks. She imagines it’s the sort of thing regular kids in magical communities dream of while growing up.  

Turns it’s the wrong thing to say, because the boy’s face crumples. “No,” he tells her, and _oh god_ is he going to cry? Did Emma just make a small child cry? “I’m just a fan,” he says with a shrug, looking away.

She’s desperately thinking of a way to change the line of conversation — anything that will bring the smile back — when she hears Marian call out her name. “Emma! You’re here!”

Thank _god_ for Marian, and not in the least for of the way the boy’s face lights up when she sees her.

“Did you get your autograph, Henry?” Marian says as she draws near them.

Why didn’t Emma think about asking him what his name is? Would have been a better ice-breaker than the one she did manage.

“Yeah,” the kid tells her.

“Then it’s time to go home,” she says, laying an arm on his shoulder.

“But I just met Emma!” Henry protests. There’s an easy familiarity between them, a quick back and forth that, Emma imagines, comes from years of knowing each other. The kid doesn’t shrink away from her, doesn’t resist her touch.  

“We agreed to an autograph,” Marian says, firm. “Your mom will kill me if I don’t send you home in time.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Henry says, sounding very put upon. Emma is just relieved that she hasn’t mortally offended her first (only) fan in Storybrooke.

“It was nice meeting you, Henry,” Emma says. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon!” She doesn’t have to force the smile, she realizes.

It doesn’t appear to comfort Henry, who looks as though he has been greatly wronged.

“Cute kid,” Emma tells Marian as they watch Henry drag his feet out of the diner. She’s surprised how much she means it. She’s awkward around children, never quite sure what to do or say.

“You’ll be seeing him around,” Marian says with a smile. “He’s kind of the team mascot. And Regina’s son.”

*

Settling down is a blur of activity.

Emma’s never been one for settling down — hasn’t dreamed of it since that fiasco of a season and a half with the Sweetwater All-Stars. By the end of it, she was in no-maj prison on charges of petty theft. No one, not even President of the Quidditch Federation, could get her out of _that_ mess.

But she’s here now. She signed up for this, whatever it means. There was no signing in blood involved, at least.

In between meeting and getting to know the team, convincing Marian to cough up the bucks for an expanded support staff (Harry, the bespectacled mediwizard, is very supportive of this), and attempting to set up a rudimentary work station despite the magical interference (that Marian is fairly unhelpful in getting operational), there’s one particular moment of utter joy: the signing of Yasmin Saeed, which leaves her just one Seeker short of a full first team of her choice.

Regina Mills is a distant presence: omnipresent, but never quite there.

Emma knows she’s being observed — knows it in the meticulous reports Marian makes her write every week, and the questions she comes back with, always on point. Regina _is_ the final decision-making authority around these parts, including on matters related to the team itself.

 

Sometimes, when they _do_ speak, Regina speaks to her in clipped, professional tones, always referring to her as _Coach_ Swan or _Miss_ Swan like her name is _impossible_ to pronounce. Emma gets the feeling that Regina Mills doesn’t like her very much, which. Whatever.

 

She isn’t here to be _liked_. This is her job.

*

 

It’s different with the younger Mills, who makes it very clear that he has no intention of maintaining any sort of a distance whatsoever. Emma is pathetically grateful for the company, if only because of how genuine he is in his belief that she’s the savior the Sirens need.

“You don’t understand, Emma,” he tells her for the umpteenth time, hop-skipping up the stupid stairs that keep disappearing behind her. “We _really_ _needed_ you.”

She isn’t comfortable with compliments, most of the time, and she sure as hell doesn’t want to offer this little kid some false hope about her abilities to whip this team into shape for a fairytale run to the top. But it’s nice, having a cheerleader this earnest. He might be her first real friend in Storybrooke, though Emma’s not going to think about what that says of her as a functioning adult.

“Uh huh, kiddo,” Emma says. “Are you sure this is the right way to my office?”

“ _Yes_ , Emma. Just follow me.”

“This is stupid,” Emma grumbles, ignoring the way Henry smirks at her.

The portraits call out his name as they walk, wishing him a good day and inquiring about his school work.

“It’s _Saturday_ , Ronald,” he tells an overly inquisitive portrait of a Quidditch star from the ‘20s. “I don’t _have_ school on Saturdays.”

“Ah, right,” says Ronald — Ronald Rubblemore (1892-1950), says the plaque underneath — heaving a deep sigh. “I can’t keep track of days, you know.”

“Is she the new one?” asks another portrait (Imelda Orpington, 1885-1934). “How long until your mother fires her?”

“Don’t be rude, Imelda,” Henry chides. “Emma’s really good.”

It isn’t a bad way to grow up, Emma supposes. At ten, she wouldn’t have minded an entire professional Quidditch team and all its facilities at her disposal. _Even_ if those facilities include ridiculous disappearing staircases and mysterious passages that lead nowhere.

Henry, the little nerd, has an explanation for that as well, something about the original designer being terrified of no-maj folks coming to get him. Not entirely unjustified, considering their history. It’s just that a part of Emma, for all that she’s been a part of the magical community for years now, has never quite caught up with the _reality_ of magic, and the absurd way it just seems to work even when it _shouldn’t_.

Eleven years of being terrified of your own magic does that you. Emma’s too old now to do anything about that.

At least she has something to show off in her mostly bare office — she threw out the preening portrait of Robin Hood on her first day, because who the hell keeps their own portrait in their office? — her battered old laptop, which sends him into a burst of ecstasy. “A _laptop_ ! That is _amazing_!” he breathes. “Have you cast all the shielding spells?”   

“You know what a laptop is?” she has to ask. He _is_ a boy growing up in a sheltered magical community.

It earns her a withering glare that really should not be so effective coming from a boy this young. “I’m ten, Emma. I’m not stupid,” Henry says. “And anyway we have a desktop computer at home. I’m allowed to surf the internet for an hour on school days, and two hours on weekends. Mom says I have to learn about the no-maj world if I am to keep up.”

There’s a shadow in his face when he mentions his mother. Emma’s not prying, but she’ll be lying if she says she hasn’t noticed it more than once.

“You have wifi at home?” she says instead.  

“Yeah,” Henry says. “It’s easier at home because there’s less magical interference, but I think Dr. Jekyll could help you around that. He’s _really_ into no-maj stuff.”

Harry? Huh. Marian _did not_ mention that.

“Thanks, kid,” she tells him. “You wanna see how it works?”

The smile she gets is worth the hours of fumbling her way around blocking and shielding spells to ensure her ancient war horse doesn’t sputter and die thanks to an overdose of magic in the air.  

*

 

Emma is a novelty, even in a town that’s otherwise accustomed to famous witches and wizards hanging around in regular places. It means that she can’t visit Granny’s without someone trying to buy her food — a trick that _always_ works, curse her gluttony — and using the opportunity to tell her what the Sirens _really_ need. The _Storybrooke Mirror_ photoshoot, a.k.a. the most embarrassing and atrocious event in Emma Swan’s long list of embarrassments, doesn’t exactly help, either.

 

Sidney Glass has some sort of a deal with the Sirens where he gets exclusives in exchange for writing flattering things about Regina Mills’ vision for the team. _That_ apparently means Emma has to surrender herself to the whims and fancies of Naveen and Tiana, who spend an entire weekend shooting Emma in awkward postures that have _nothing_ to do with Quidditch.

 

She puts her foot down at the ridiculous chainsaw pose, but that doesn’t prevent the horror of the double-page photo spread the following week that screams, **SWAN SONG: STORYBROOKE MIRROR EXCLUSIVE PHOTOSHOOT!**

 

Emma spends the next few weeks dodging birds bearing love letters. On one memorable occasion, a grumpy-looking owl dumps a vial that explodes right in front of Granny’s, and has the patrons declaring their love for Emma in song for an hour until the effects wear off.

 

Then there’s the parties, the never-ending parties that Storybrooke’s wealthy _insist_ on throwing.

 

For a small magical town in the middle of nowhere, Storybrooke sure has a _lot_ of rich (white, old) people seemingly _dying_ to host their new coach and _get to know her_.  

 

“I don’t _like_ people,” she explains to Henry after _yet another_ cocktail party that Emma has to show up at, dressed in stiff formal robes and pretending to care about the opinions of men and women who have never played Quidditch in their lives. “Not you,” she hastens to add, before she offends her only real friend/confidante in town. Even if he is ten. “You’re a good kid. But _most_ people.”

 

“You’re weird,” Henry says, wrinkling his nose at her. “If you don’t like it, just don’t go.”

 

He’s a more sympathetic listener than Marian, who will not hear a _word_ about Emma’s anti-social tendencies. (“A lot of these people have kept us afloat over the years, Emma,” she told her, firm. “If they want you, you’ll go.”)

 

“It’s not that simple,” Emma tells him, taking another massive bite out of her bearclaw. “You’re lucky you’re a kid.” A kid who doesn’t seem to have any friends his age, but still a kid.

 

Henry has come bearing Granny’s pastries — Emma should really _stop_ taking advantage of the old lady’s weakness for the Sirens — and they’re holed up in Emma’s office as she polishes them off one by one.

 

“Do they throw parties every time the Sirens get a new coach?” Emma muses. Because that would mean a _lot_ of parties, considering the Sirens’ history.  

 

“I’m a kid, Emma,” Henry says. “I don’t _go_ to parties.” His glare is _withering_ , a mini-replica of his terrifying mother.

 

“You can go to the Mayor’s shindig instead of me,” Emma tells him. “You do that and I’ll do all your homework, how ‘bout that?”

 

“Homework’s not so bad,” Henry says with a shrug.

 

“Okay, who’s weird _now_ , kiddo?” Emma says, shaking her head. “You _like_ homework. Who the hell likes _homework_?”

 

“It’s important to learn new things,” Henry says. He actually puffs his chest out, the little nerd. Emma uses the opportunity to reach out and mess his hair up, earning herself a squeal of half-protest and half-delight.

 

Of all the people she’s encountered since her arrival in Storybrooke, Henry Mills has been the most unexpected.

 

The kid’s nothing like the children Emma grew up with — wretched, impoverished orphans with little love in their lives. Henry has never known hunger. Henry has never _not_ known love. He trusts easy, as though he’s never known reasons to truly distrust or fear the adults in his life. He _believes_ fervently, with all his heart. It’s why he can look at someone like Emma and see a hero.

 

And sometimes, _sometimes_ Emma senses a deep unhappiness within him — a shadow on his face, occasional bouts of silence. Sometimes, Emma watches him with his mother — drawn, inexplicably, by the little family unit — and wonders.

 

*

 

Emma _does_ show up at Mayor Gold’s shindig at the Town Hall in her shiniest formal attire, stumbling through a speech no one told her she had to deliver and suffering through advice from the same wizards who seem to be the only attendees at _every posh party_ in Storybrooke.

 

“You need to go for the kill,” says a very inebriated Albert Spencer. “Get it? _Go for the kill_. Wreck ‘em.”

 

Emma can guarantee the man has not been on a broom since the 1970s, but she nods obediently, wishing she could disappear instead.

 

“Strategy,” says Mayor Gold, smiling a tight-lipped smile at Emma. There’s a reptilian look in his eyes that makes her skin crawl. “Strategy is key.”

 

“I was always an attacking captain,” says Gaston Legume, flashing his pearly whites at her. “Defensive play is for cowards.”

 

He sang an entire power ballad for Emma during the love potion incident. Most people would be embarrassed, but Legume — “call me Gaston” — takes it in his stride, _owns_ it. Emma would be amused if it weren’t so irritating.

 

“I agree,” says another voice. “Sometimes offence _is_ the best defence.” The men — and Emma — turn to the owner of the voice like moths to a flame.

 

Regina Mills is a vision in black, her fashionable dress robes falling open in the middle to offer a glimpse of the modified no-maj attire underneath, sleek and stylish. Her top probably costs more than what she pays Emma every month.

 

“A world please, Coach Swan?” She curls her index finger, beckoning Emma towards her. It would be outright rude coming from anyone else, but Regina makes the gesture look _inviting_ . Emma is drawn helplessly towards her, as though there’s an invisible cord stretching out between them, _pulling_ her towards Regina.  

 

Emma murmurs apologies that she doesn’t mean and follows Regina to a spot near the giant window.

 

“You, uh, had something to say?” she ventures when Regina says nothing, preferring to stare out of the window, a glass of wine in her hand. The silence makes her nervous.

 

“You looked like you were about to beat Gaston to death with your bare hands,” Regina says, her gaze fixed upon a spot outside the window. “It would make for terrible publicity.”

 

“That’s…” Emma isn’t sure how to respond to that statement, to the thought that this might possibly be Regina’s idea of a gallant rescue from the clutches of Storybrooke’s rich and awful. Which _worked_. “Thank you?”

 

“My son thinks I should make you attend less parties,” she tells Emma, finally looking her in the eye. Her gaze is dark, unfathomable.

 

“I, uh, thank you,” Emma says, more earnest this time. She doesn’t know what to make of Regina’s words, doesn’t know the details of what Henry might have told her, or why that has somehow convinced his mother to make an intervention — was it an intervention? — on her behalf. But she appreciates it, appreciates the gesture. “He’s a good kid,” she tells Regina, unable to hold back her smile. “A great kid.”

 

It earns Emma her first _real_ smile from Regina Mills, one that starts slowly at the corner of her lips and reaches all the way to her eyes. A girl could lose herself in those eyes.

 

Emma’s convinced Regina dislikes her. She’s made her peace with it, she _has_ . But a smile like that, _Merlin_.

 

There’s something about Regina Mills that makes Emma want to throw all caution to the wind and do something drastic to gain her approval.

 

“Go home, Miss Swan,” Regina says, turning to face the window again. “You’ve done your part for the evening.”

 

Emma doesn’t dare push, doesn’t dare ask why. But that night, she lies awake, and thinks of a pair of dark, dark eyes.

 

*

 

As the season approaches, she’s beginning to feel more comfortable with the team — comfortable enough that she can call them _hers_ , odd as it may sound.

 

She dusts off her old Quidditch robes, the ones she holds on to as relics of a past life. She wears one of them to practice, earning her more than a few admiring looks from the younger players, and a wolf-whistle from Yasmin.

 

Marian has kept her word, and Harry’s support team is now sufficiently large enough for him to mostly ignore his mediwizard duties in favor of spending most of his time with a reworked camcorder. It has an unfortunate tendency of sputtering and dying at the most inopportune moments, much to his consternation, but Emma appreciates the effort. It will be awhile before they have a fully functional set-up, but Emma prefers to _not_ rely on her memory alone, despite what traditional wizarding coaching manuals may have to say on the matter. If the team thinks she’s a little unorthodox, they don’t comment it.

 

Billy’s performance remains a niggling concern. He sticks out like a sore thumb even as the rest of the team begins to fall in place, and Emma has more than one urgent meetings with Marian about a solid new Seeker for the first team. They’ve had two deals fall apart, and another one that Marian claims is beyond their means, leading to sharp words about champions and cutting corners.

Emma scowls as she watches him fumble with the simplest of feints, yet again.

 

“Watch out,” Merlin yells, and then there’s the loud _thwack_ of a Bludger hitting him squarely on the back. Emma winces in sympathy and blows the whistle for play to stop.

 

Quidditch is weighed heavily in favor of Seekers — that’s a thing about the game she can’t change even if she tries to. Seekers win matches, and a guy with Billy’s speed and reflexes is _not_ gonna cut it in a pro league.  

 

She snaps back to the present with the sound of Henry’s voice, promptly entranced by the scene playing out in front of her.

 

There’s Guinevere, pressing kisses to his face while she coos, “Who’s the cutest Siren of them all?”

 

“ _Ew_ , stop it,” Henry protests, giggling and breathless and trying to wriggle away.

 

Lancelot swoops in to rescue him, placing him atop his shoulders in one fluid move. Henry is red-faced and delirious with joy, laughing, laughing, until everyone else has gathered around them, talking in high-pitched, excited voices and joining in on the laughter. Merlin challenges him to an arm-wrestling match, and Ali snatches Harry’s camcorder away from him to try and record the scene (Emma can’t tell if he does know how to use it).

 

It’s the sort of picture perfect moment that’s straight out of the movies Emma used to watch as a kid in her no-maj foster homes: happy stories about children surrounded by love and laughter, among people who want them, in places where they _belong_.

 

On the hardest days, like when foster dad three gave her a black eyes because she couldn’t explain why the light bulbs in the kitchen were broken, Emma would dream of being in a movie like that  — of being the sort of kid who has a life full of laughter.

 

She walks up to Henry, who looks up at her and beams. She wants to hold onto this moment, stretch it out and soak it in.

 

“Wanna fly, kid?” Emma says. It’s the thing that has given her the most joy in her life, and she wants to —

 

“I _can’t_ , Emma,” Henry tells her, his smile beginning to fade, but Emma will have none of it. She wants to be a part of this, childish thought it might be.

 

“I’ll give you a ride,” she says, grinning at him. She may not be as fast or crafty as she once was, but she can give him this.

 

“No offence, Coach,” Tamara says, always the sceptic. “I’d say it’s a little dangerous to try that. Our brooms are designed for agility, not safe carriage for multiple riders.”

 

“She’s not wrong,” Merlin chimes in, brow furrowed in concern.

 

They have a point, Emma knows this. Two people on a broom _not_ designed for transport is a safety hazard, especially when one of them is a child. She _could_ just buy Henry an ice-cream instead. It’s a perfectly good gift for a ten year old, regardless of how rich and well-fed Henry might be. But then Ali says, “I might have something that’ll help,” shifting from one foot to another like a truant schoolboy.

 

And Emma can’t help herself when she asks, “What’ll help?”

“Glad you asked.” Ali smiles. He raises his wand, and says, “ _Accio_ carpet!”

 

“ _The flying carpet from Agrabah?_ ” Henry says. It’s less a question and more a high-pitched squeak.

 

“The one and the same,” Ali tells him, smug. “Spotted it in the Hall of Exhibits on my first day here.”

 

Emma, on account of not being a nerd, has _not_ in fact been inside the Hall of Exhibits. She watches as the carpet comes to a halt in front of them, hovering as though waiting for them to step in.

 

“Aren’t these illegal in this country?” Yasmin says.

 

“It’s called racism, darling,” Ali tells her.

 

That, and the fact that the broom manufacturers in Europe and North America will do anything in their power to ward off competition.  

 

“It was a gift from the Sultan of Agrabah to my grandfather,” Henry says. “It’s been in the Hall of Exhibits forever!” He’s practically vibrating with excitement, and Emma can feel herself growing more enthusiastic by the minute. She hasn’t been on one of these before. This one looks like it will comfortably seat four people at least, just the sort of vehicle the broom manufacturers would have conniptions over.

 

“So what do you say, boss?” Ali says. “Shall we?”

 

*

 

It’s different from a broomstick — _definitely_ more comfortable, for starters. If they _do_ manage to market these as family-friendly vehicles, a lot of broom manufacturers will end up with lighter pockets.

 

Emma is in awe of how well Ali manages to navigate the carpet, despite there being no handle to hold on to or to point in a particular direction. The carpet seems to have a mind of its own — a _personality_ , in the way that only the finest brooms have.

 

They go further and further up, until the stadium is a tiny, green box down below. The evening sky stretches out in front of them, red and pink and orange.

 

“This your first time flying?” Ali asks Henry, who nods. Emma puts an arm around Henry, just in case.

 

“Hang on, then!” Ali says, and the carpet swoops and _dives_ , so sudden that Emma can’t help the yelp that comes out of her mouth. She pulls Henry even closer, wrapping both arms around his small frame.

 

They do not stay up in air for very long. Not when they’re on an unfamiliar flying carpet with a distinct personality of its own, not when they’re flying with Henry.  

 

The carpet lands smoothly, hovering a few feet above ground so that Henry can hop off without any particular trouble. His hair is sticking out in every direction. He looks dazed and pleased.

 

“Had fun?” Emma says, and Henry nods vehemently.

 

“You’ll be flying it on your own in no time,” Ali says, clapping him on the back.

 

“I would appreciate if you refrained from commenting on what my son will or will not be doing, Mr. Hamza.”

 

None of them had noticed Henry’s mother — Henry’s _very angry_ , _terrifying_ mother — lurking in the shadows, as it turns out.

 

“Henry,” she says, her voice low. Her face, as she emerges out of the darkness, is grim. “Will you please wait in my office?”

 

“But Mom, we were just —”

 

“ _Henry._ ”

 

Henry knows when _not_ to argue with his mother, because he snaps his mouth shut and directs his gaze at his feet instead. “Please wait in my office,” Regina tells him. “We’ll discuss your insubordination later. Do you know what insubordination means?”

 

He shakes his head in denial.

 

“It means you’re _grounded_ ,” his mother says.

 

Henry is a small, sorry figure dragging his feet towards his mother’s office, his shoulders hunched and weary, as though bearing the weight of the world upon them. Emma’s heart goes out to him as she watches him depart.

 

“Ms. Mills, I mean — I can explain!” Ali blurts.

 

“Mr. Hamza,” Regina says, with a pleasant, politician’s smile. It’s a little scary, that smile. “It’s getting late. You should head back.”

 

Her tone is friendly enough, but there’s no doubt that it’s an order.

 

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, of course, ma’am,” Ali says, and scampers away like a panicked mouse. Emma can’t blame him.

It leaves just the two of them — Emma, and a visibly upset Regina, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

 

The unthinking rush of the evening is gone, and all Emma’s left with is the sinking realization that she fucked up. She takes a deep breath, watching Regina step closer, soft and menacing. There’s fire in her dark eyes, even as he voice is hard enough to cut diamonds. “Is there a reason why you thought it was okay to take _my son_ on a ride on a _dangerous and illegal_ flying object _without my permission_ ?” Regina says. If she could breathe fire, she _would_.

 

There’s no space for Emma to disagree here, not when it’s phrased like that. She already knows she’s fucked up. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to him,” Emma says, feeble. It’s not much of a defence.

“My son is _ten_ , Coach Swan,” Regina says. “He is _ten_ , with _no_ magical training. How did you think it was _okay_ to take him flying on that _thing_?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Emma says, feeling guilt churn in her stomach. “I would not, I would _never_ endanger Henry’s life.” She _wouldn’t_.

 

“And yet, that’s exactly what you did,” Regina says, furious. Emma does not have anything to offer in response. It’s a relief that Regina hasn’t held Ali culpable, at least.

 

She watches Regina pace instead, occasionally running her hands through her hair. This might be the first time she’s seen Regina look less than put together, Emma thinks. But then, being terrified for your son might do that to you. What does Emma know of motherhood, or families?

 

“I have allowed him to spend time with you because I felt it did him good,” Regina says, looking at Emma with fresh betrayal in her eyes. “He idolizes you, for some reason. It made him _happy_ , and I thought—” She cuts herself short, looking away. There’s tears in her eyes now.

 

Emma watches her in silence, frozen in place. She wants to apologize “I should have known better than to trust a frivolous washed-up former star with my son,” Regina says, shaking her head. “I didn’t hire you to be his _playmate_.”

 

_That_ stings, even if Emma knows she’s in the wrong here. _Frivolous_ and _washed-up_ sounds awfully close to _difficult_ and _worthless_ , and all the others words she’s struggled _not_ to be for such a long time. “I wouldn’t _have_ to be his playmate if he had friends his age,” she tells her. “Haven’t you noticed how unhappy he is?”

 

She knows her words have hit their mark when Regina winces. “Do _not_ presume to tell me how to raise my son, Coach Swan,” she tells Emma, nothing but cold fury in her voice. “Do the job you’ve been hired to do, and _stay away from my son_ .”

She apparates in a blaze of fury, leaving purple smoke behind her.

 

***

 

Henry is defiant, utterly unrepentant despite the promise of grounding. “I had fun,” he insists, looking at Regina with hard eyes.

 

“Henry, what you did today was _dangerous_ ,” Regina pleads. She wills herself to keep her voice steady, despite the tears that threaten spill. “That carpet—” she shakes her head. “What were you _thinking_?”

He jerks away when Regina tries to place a hand on his shoulder.

 

“No using the computer for a week. You come home straight from school, and do your homework. Is that understood?” Regina says, trying not to baulk under the coldness of his gaze. Her son is _ten_. “You’re forbidden from meeting Emma Swan. Enough is enough!”

 

And, sure enough, it’s Emma’s name that finally gets him to drop the veneer. “Emma is my _friend_ ,” he tells her, anger and hurt written all over his face. “You can’t _do_ that!”

 

“Henry —”

 

“I _hate_ you,” Henry says, stamping his foot. He dashes away, running up the stairs to his bedroom. The door slams shut with a resounding _thud_.

 

It is nothing Regina hasn’t heard from him in the past year or so, ever since he discovered the truth about his adoption. It stings more today, right after this Emma Swan-orchestrated escapade of his, after the assertion that _she’s his_ _friend_.

 

She clenches her fists in futile rage, willing herself to stay calm, to breathe.

 

To _think_ she brought Emma Swan on board because she wanted to _build_ something, to give the Sirens their best shot. Henry had been besotted, even before he met her, and Regina had thought, _maybe_ —

 

She doesn’t know what she’d thought.

 

*

 

She keeps the wooden box on a drawer in her bedside table.

 

It’s very tempting, that night, to set the box and its contents on fire — to leave nothing but ashes behind.

  
_To the beautiful woman who hates losing_ , the card reads, as though the writer had anticipated that Regina would, in the years to come, lose her reputation, her peace of mind, and eventually, her son.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies to anyone who read this fic before I caught the error and read the first two chapters in the wrong order. Who lets me do things?
> 
> Also, Regina is wearing this, minus mask:


	4. Chapter 4

_Merlin Smith’s loan deal from the Chudley Cannons had been turned into a permanent move, and Yasmin Sayid and Guinevere Baron had joined from the Hollyhead Harpies and the Sweetwater All-Stars respectively. Emma Swan, maverick coach extraordinaire, however, was busy claiming another target that was far from straightforward, but would turn into one of the best League Championship signings of the summer._

 

_Mulan Hua was the player’s name, and Regina Mills [President, Storybrooke Sirens] as she would later admit – was hesitant in signing her, claiming she knew very little about the petite Seeker who had never played for a first tier team before this. Mills was far from alone in that respect. Plenty of other team bosses have questioned their scouts ever since, lamenting the fact that she managed to escaped their notice._

 

_On occasion of an unremarkable warm-up game with an unremarkable team in the third tier, Emma Swan found her Seeker. And the rest, as they say, is history._

 

\-    _"The Storybrooke Sirens' Story", August Wayne Booth_

_Mulan? Yeah. She's pretty great. Can you remove that Quill of yours please? It's kind of annoying._

_\- Emma Swan, Coach, Storybrooke Sirens_

 

It isn’t that Emma is _nervous_ about a pre-season friendly with the Portland Puffins, but it’s just that it’s a matter of _honor_ right now, thanks to Regina Mills claiming that she’s _frivolous_ , of all things.

 

There’s no denying that Emma fucked up. She’s had a conversation with Marian, which involved a mini-speech on safety standards, and the lowdown on the Henry Mills Situation she’s helped create.

 

Henry is grounded and forbidden from seeing Emma, perhaps ever again. Regina is probably looking into the darkest of dark arts to ensure Emma’s doom, the Sirens be damned.

 

Emma _gets_ all of that, gets that she’s earned this, that no one in their right mind would allow a kid like Henry to spend time with someone like Emma. She isn’t a good influence. But the assertion that she’s not doing her _job_ , that she isn’t, somehow, giving her 100% and _more_ to the Sirens, is something that she can’t shake off.  

It cuts deep into old wounds: _years_ of wanting to be more than some irresponsible burnout whose only claim to fame — all fifteen minutes of it — is a World Cup she didn't win, and a League Championship she crashed out of, never to be heard of again except for lazy _could have been_ listicles in the _Quidditch Weekly_.

Besides, there’s something about Regina Mills that _gets_ to her. Burrows under her skin and tugs at half-remembered memories in the dark recesses of her mind. Makes her want to blurt idiotic things like _I feel like I know you from somewhere_ and _would you like to go out for a drink with me?_ , while another part of her just wants to _fight_ , give back as good as she gets.

What it boils down to is a rather simple sentiment: she doesn't _want_ Regina Mills to think she's irresponsible and frivolous.

She wants to do better.

 

*

The Puffins score first.

It’s an unfortunate slip from Yasmin — the Portland Chaser looks a little dazed at having gotten past her. The stadium roars, cheering their team on.

For a team perpetually in the third tier of the Quidditch league, the Puffins have a remarkably loyal fan base.

Meanwhile, the Storybrooke Chasers seem downright rusty, and Merlin’s Bludgers directionless like he’s forgotten how to aim. They're testing waters, Emma knows this, knows that the team hasn’t played a full match together before this — that’s _why_ they’re playing friendlies, for god’s sake.

It's hard not to grab her broomstick and just, _charge_ into the field, take over and — _No_.

She settles for biting her nails instead, and occasionally cursing the referee. She’ll have to get used to taking the backseat. She’s the coach now.

There’s a player in the Portland team that she can’t help but notice, despite her general nervousness over this totally _not-serious_ but _very very important_ match. And the fact that her team is yet to score, and that her boss is somewhere in the stands — they’ve been avoiding each other studiously since the last blow-up, which is just as well — judging her every move.  

 _Despite_ that. Emma can’t help but notice the Seeker: a lithe young woman who hovers over the rest of the players, seemingly unconcerned with what’s going on in the game.

She’s almost stationary, a spot of perfect stillness amidst the frantic pace of the game. And then, as though in a blink of an eye, she’s in motion, a blur of green shooting past a flummoxed Billy towards the Portland goal. The crowd roars in excitement, and Merlin and Lancelot — who have _finally_ caught on — fire desperate Bludgers in her direction. She dodges them like it’s nothing, eyes fixed on the Snitch, and then it’s Ali throwing himself against her and spinning her off course with a body blow.

That block earns him a lecture from the referee and a penalty for Portland, but Emma can’t take her eyes off the girl.   

“I want you to follow her every move,” she tells Harry, whose modified camcorder has already attracted curious glances.

“Just her?”  

“Yep,” Emma says, strangely uncaring about the fact that Portland scores yet again, this time from the penalty. “Every move.”

She can’t help the frisson of excitement that runs down her spine and quickens her heart, a hint of an old madness she’s scarcely felt in the past years.  

It might be too early to make a proclamation, but hell, Emma’s nothing if not confident and cocksure ( _too cocksure_ , her detractors would say). This girl — Hua Mulan, that’s her name — is a star in making, and the final piece of the puzzle that Emma’s been searching for all this while.

 

*

 

It is probably poor form for a coach to root against her own team, but then, no one’s ever called Emma conventional.

 

The Sirens _do_ pick up pace after that, courtesy Lancelot taking over the reigns of the match. He may not be as quick as he was in his prime, but he’s still formidable, galvanizing the entire team with his mere presence.

 

They race ahead of the Puffins until they’re up 120-40, and most of the Portland team looks like they’d like to give up and go home now. Emma wants to _shake_ them.

 

The Seeker, though — Hua Mulan — the Seeker still hovers at a distance, refusing to fall for Billy’s feints or Merlin’s taunting. If Emma didn’t know better, she’d say she’s stopped caring, but there’s something about the way she holds herself: a hawk in repose, watching its prey.  

 

How on _earth_ did the _Portland Puffins_ end up with this girl, and _how_ has _no one_ snapped her up before this? She’s watching the game like a bird of prey, circling over— she’s—

 

“She’s spotted the Snitch!” Emma screams, no longer caring to contain her excitement. “ _Dammit_ , Billy, she’s _spotted_ the Snitch!”

 

By the time Billy has caught on, Emma — and the entire stadium, going by the way everyone falls silent, as though watching with bated breath — already knows what’s going to happen.

Mulan swerves past Lancelot and dives straight towards the ground, hurtling downwards and downwards until it looks like she’ll crash. Billy has caught on with her, and they’re neck to neck, Billy doing his best to unsettle Mulan.

 

That is, until Mulan pulls back, _just in time_. Smooth as though she just hasn’t been hurtling towards the ground at breakneck speed. It’s poor Billy who’s fumbling and holding on to his broom for dear life, perhaps not even aware of what Mulan’s just done to his career at Storybrooke.  

 

And then she’s soaring above, the Snitch gleaming in the sunlight while the announcer says, “PORTLAND WIN 190-120!” The crowd lets out a disbelieving roar of approval.

 

And somewhere in the stands, Regina Mills is furious no doubt, but Emma can’t bring herself to stop smiling as she watches Mulan fly high, the Snitch still safe and secure in her hand.

***

Regina is _furious_.

She’d known, she’d _known_ this would happen, this _pathetic_ show with an opponent comprised of rank amateurs. The _Portland Puffins_ , for god’s sake.

She paces and paces the length of her office, fingers itching to grab her wand and set _something_ — maybe Emma Swan’s hair — on fire.

“Regina,” Marian says, in that reasonable tone of hers and that’s even _more_ infuriating, because how _dare_ she. How dare she _defend_ this abysmal show, this _mediocrity_ from a team that’s hoping to be a title contender. How dare she stick up for a coach who’s proven to be nothing but unsuited for a job of this nature.

“I’m going to fire her,” Regina says, her tone even.

She can already imagine the headlines: STORYBROOKE SIRENS SNATCH DEFEAT FROM THE JAWS OF VICTORY, BEGIN SEASON WITH DEFEAT AGAINST A NO-GOOD NO-NAME THIRD TIER TEAM.

Sidney will have a field day with this.  

“Regina, _please_ —”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t!” Regina says. “Give me _one_ reason why I should keep her around. She’s _frivolous_ and _disrespectful_ , and the exact opposite of what this team needs.”

 

Regina’s _not_ going to tolerate this, no. Whoever she’d hoped Emma Swan would be — whatever she’d hoped she would contribute — _this_ isn’t it, this pathetic capitulation before a team that is paid less than Lancelot’s salary.  

 

She can feel herself descending into rage again, thick and dark and vicious. For all that she plays at being a level-headed professional, the anger is never too far beneath the surface, simmering, simply waiting for an opportunity to rise up and set the world around her on fire.

 

Curse Emma Swan for bringing that out in her.

 

Marian raises her hands, as though in surrender. “I’m not saying we played well today, Regina. I know this is a match we should’ve won. The fact that we didn’t is just shameful.”

 

Regina waits, because there’s no way Marian’s done saying her part. “But firing the new coach even before the season begins is the _last_ thing we need, and I’m fairly certain the board will agree on that.”

 

And _that_ has Regina flare up once again, because that’s _low_ , even for Marian. “Don’t you dare threaten me with the board!”   

“I will if you’re being unreasonable.” Marian’s voice is hard as steel. She’s leaning against Regina’s desk, arms folded in front of her and her gaze resolute.

 

They glare at each other until Marian backs down, softening her stance. “Look, I know you’re upset about what happened with Henry. You have every right to be,” she says.

 

“I wasn’t asking for you approval,” Regina says, gritting her teeth and looking away.   

 

It’s a transgression: one that only Marian — and perhaps her sister — is allowed.

 

If Regina were in a somewhat more stable frame of mind, she would appreciate the manipulation. She _does_ in fact ask for Marian’s approval — has asked for it at nights racked with guilt and indecision, when the gulf between her son and herself seemed insurmountable. No one knows more about the agony she has been through in the past year or so with Henry than Marian.

 

“Do _not_ make this about my son,” she tells Marian.

 

Marian lowers her eyes, suitably chastised, but Regina can’t say the diversion didn’t work. Her anger has stymied, and all she feels is exhausted.

 

At times she tends to wonder if theirs is an unequal friendship, one where she asks and asks and has nothing to offer in return.    

 

“Drink?” Marian says, and Regina nods.

 

It has been a day.

 

*

 

They’re midway through a bottle of a superior red — _not_ elf-made, thank you, Regina does not consume products of modern day slavery — when there’s a knock on the door.

 

“Coach Swan is here to see you, Ms. Mills,” Jacinda says, long-suffering expression on her face. Jacinda has been with Regina and the Sirens long enough to anticipate her moods, especially after a loss as ignominious as this one. “What should I say?”

 

“Tell her this isn’t a good time, Ms. Tremaine,” Regina says, unwilling to emerge from her wine-and-Marian-induced cocoon and face Emma Swan, especially since she hasn’t decided on _not_ firing her, no matter what Marian might have to say on the matter. This is _her_ team. The Sirens are her life and blood, her father’s legacy, and one that she will perhaps pass on to Henry someday.

 

“I said that already,” Jacinda says, rolling her eyes.  “She’s insisting that it’s important.”

“It _is_ important.” That’s Emma Swan, _loud_ as always. She elbows past Jacinda with a broad smile. “Thanks, Jace, I owe you one.”

 

She’s wearing her awful leather jacket, like it’s the only pair of clothing she owns. She looks exceedingly cheerful for someone who’s just led her team to a shameful defeat in the hands of a third tier team consisting of rank amateurs. Regina might throttle her with her bare hands.

“And what could be so important that you had to barge in, Coach Swan?” Regina says, in what she hopes is a suitably menacing fashion. “I see your attitude has not changed despite this ignominious defeat.”

 

“I want you to sign her up,” Emma Swan says, hands on her hips and looking for all world like she _doesn’t_ owe Regina an explanation for her team’s — _their_ , no, _Regina_ ’s team’s — performance. “The Portland Seeker, I mean. Hua Mulan. I’m sure you can work your magic, right, Marian?”

 

Marian raises an eyebrow from where she’s stretched out on the couch, her head resting on an arm and another one on her stomach. She looks more amused than she should.

“You cannot barge in here and simply demand any player who catches your fancy, Coach Swan, that is _not_ how this works,” Regina says slowly, as though explaining the matter to a child.

 

“You watched us play today,” Emma Swan says, stepping closer to where to where Regina is seated. Her palms are pressed flat on the desk and she’s leaning forward until they’re eye to eye. It’s needlessly aggressive, Regina thinks peevishly.

 

Up close, like this, Emma Swan is breathtaking, eyes burning with a fire she cannot name.

 

This is, of course, the wine speaking.

 

“You _know_ she outclassed Billy by a mile. You _know_ we need a Seeker with better reflexes than his, someone who will win us matches. You’ve known this all along,” she says, looking Regina in the eye.  

 

“That is enough, Coach Swan,” Regina tells her, stunned at the woman’s audacity.

 

“I’m just getting started, Madam President,” Swan shoots back, undeterred. “Champions don’t cut corners.”

 

“And you think this, this _child_ with zero experience is going to make us champions?”

“I’m asking you to take a chance,” Emma Swan says. “What do you have to lose?”

 

And then she turns and walks away without so much as a by your leave.

 

“She makes a compelling argument,” Marian says with a shrug. It’s infuriating.

*

 

It has been a while since she’s stepped anywhere near Harry Jekyll’s office, a fact reinforced by the portraits at the entrance who refuse to let her in until she hears them out.

 

“You’ve forgotten old Fátima, Regina Mills,” says the portrait on the left, glaring at Regina.

 

“We never see you in here anymore,” agrees the one on the right. “Is this how you treat a dead woman?”

 

“A good afternoon to you too, ladies,” Regina says, unable to hold back her smile.

 

Fátima and Missy might indeed be known in Quidditch history as Fátima Martínez Delgado and Missy Washington, the legendary Beaters who took Henry Mills’ team to the pinnacle of the League Championship, but to Regina, growing up, they were her just her father’s friends — honorary aunts who always came down from New York together, and made no secret of their hatred for Mother.

 

“This guy is up to no good,” Fátima says, like she has every time she has spoken of Jekyll to her. “You need to get rid of him.”

 

“He brings in new no-maj nonsense in here every other day,” Missy concurs. “And I sit here and watch while you say _nothing_!”  

 

“Things have changed since you were around, Missy,” Regina tells her. “We have been working on integrating no-maj techonology with the running of the team for a while now.”

 

“You’re a fool if you think they aren’t using these _abominations_ that you call technology to _spy_ on us,” Fátima hisses, brandishing her broomstick like a weapon.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Regina says. “Now, will you let me in?”

 

“Say please,” Missy tells her, crossing her arms. “Where are are your manners, girl?”  

 

“ _Please_ let me in, Missy,” Regina says. “I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by more often.”

 

That seems to placate the portraits, who unlock the doors to Jekyll’s lair without further complaint.

 

Harry Jekyll’s fascination with non-magical technology is well-known, a fascination Regina has done her best to encourage. There will be a day when more and more technology will become a part of the sport, working seamlessly with magic, and Regina wants to be prepared for it when the time comes.

 

*

 

She’s still in Jekyll’s office, poring over his recordings of Hua Mulan’s performance from the day before, when Henry drops by. He’s no longer grounded, and allowed to move about as he pleases.

 

He’s had the run of the Sirens’ premises ever since he was a toddler, spending hours in Regina’s office while Regina and Marian hammered out the finer details of running a Quidditch team. It’s only now that he avoids her, preferring to spend his time running around with the players or doodling in his notebooks in Marian’s office. Or in Jekyll’s office, as it turns out, because he looks surprised to run into her here.  

 

“What are you doing here?” he tells her, furrowing his brows.

 

He’s been sullen in the past week, determined to punish her for refusing access to his new best friend and all the adventures she has to offer.

 

She never should have been swayed by his unabashed interest in Emma Swan. She should’ve _known_ something like this was going to happen.

 

“I’m watching Harry’s recordings,” she tells him, careful to keep a smile on her face.

 

Like always, he sees right through it, and responds with a shrug.  

 

“This is good, isn’t it? Using technology, I mean. You like that, don’t you?” Regina says, desperate to keep him talking. “I don’t know how we can develop enough resistance to magical interference to make it useful and efficient in the long term, but it can become a good way of keeping track of how we’re doing.” She might be babbling, she knows. She misses his voice.

 

“Emma says —”

 

“I don’t want to hear a _word_ about Emma Swan,” Regina snaps, and regrets it immediately as she watches him shut down.

 

No child should able to do that, to mask his emotions as though it’s second nature. She _made_ him this way. _She_ made him this way.

 

“I have to go,” he tells her, and runs out of the office, whatever business he had now forgotten in his desperate need to get away from her.

 

Hua Mulan performs a spectacular dive on the screen of Jekyll’s desktop contraption, but Regina can no longer bring herself to watch it.

 

It isn’t as though she doesn’t understand his anger, doesn’t understand the desperate desire to be a part of the magical world that he doesn’t quite have the words to articulate.

 

There was time when their home was enough to make him feel like he _belonged_ somewhere. A time when she had all the answers to his problems, a time when a simple kiss would suffice to heal his pain.

 

She might be his mother, but she’s no longer his world, and even as she aches to reach out and _fix_ things for him, there are some things that are beyond her grasp.

 

 _Why did you bring me here_ , he had raged, once, and Regina had had no answer, no answer at all except, _I wanted you more than anything, darling, I love you more than life itself._

 

*

 

Regina is more weary than ever when she trudges out of Jekyll’s office, wanting nothing more than to grab hold of Henry and _go home_. But apparently the universe and Emma Swan have other plans, because there she is, leaning against the wall, oh-so-casual. She has a finger tucked into her belt buckle, and she’s chatting away with the portraits as though she’s known them forever.

 

“Hey,” Emma Swan says when she spots Regina.

 

The fact that Regina has no desire to comment on her impudent address is testimony to how _tired_ she is.

 

“What do you want, Miss Swan?” she says, curt.

 

Swan puts her hands in her pockets like a nervous schoolboy and looks at her feet. Her cheeks, Regina notes with some fascination, have turned an enticing shade of pink. “I, uh, I wanted to apologize,” she says eventually, fumbling with her words. “I ran into Henry again and —”

 

“Stop,” Regina says sharply. “Do _not_ bring up my son _ever again_.”

 

“I just —”

 

“Do let the girl apologize, Regina,” Fátima chimes in. She has drawn up a chair and is, in fact, watching them with a glass of wine in her hand.   

 

“No one asked for your input,” Regina snaps, irritated beyond belief.

 

Which, of course, is cue for Missy  to chide, “Now, girl, _where_ are your manners?”

 

Regina isn’t thinking when she reaches out and grabs Emma Swan by the wrist, dragging her towards the nearest portrait-free spot even as Fátima calls out, “Go on, ignore a dead woman!”

 

They end up in a balcony that overlooks the grounds. It takes Regina a minute or so to realize that she's holding on to Swan's wrist, and then it's her turn to feel her face grow warm. Which is absurd.

 

“You had something to say?” she says, letting go of Emma Swan’s hand with as much dignity as she can manage. Swan looks a little dazed.

 

“I really am sorry about what happened… the other day. We shouldn't have done anything like that without your permission,” Swan says, eyes wide and penitent. “I would never willingly endanger a child, let alone your son.”

 

There is enough sincerity in her voice to take the fight out of Regina, and what she’s left with is even more exhaustion.

 

Regina takes in a deep breath, taking a moment to stare out at the now-empty grounds. The sun hangs low in the western horizon, lending a rosy hue to the freshly mowed grass and the vacant stands.

 

Soon, the stands will be packed with people. These grounds will come to life, touched by the ancient magic that lies at the heart of the sport. The Sirens will set out on another journey, buoyed by the hopes and the desires of a thousand loyal hearts.    

 

There is more at stake here than her feud with Swan, no matter how justified.

 

“You will stay away from Henry,” she tells her, firm.

 

Swan nods vehemently. Her eyes seem to lose a bit of their shine, or perhaps that is just Regina’s imagination speaking. She presses on, regardless, “You will _not_ encourage any scheme he may come up with about playing Quidditch, or flying on his own. Is that understood?”

 

“Of course, I —”

 

“Is that clear, Miss Swan?”

 

“Yes, of course.” Swan is positively meek. _Good_.

 

The setting sun has painted the sky a brilliant shade of red. Regina fixes her gaze upon the giant Storybrooke Sirens sign at a distance, and says, “By the way, you should talk to Marian about Hua Mulan. You don’t want someone else’s scouts to swoop in before we have a signed contract in hand.”

 

From the corner of her eye, she spots Swan’s smile grow wider and wider.

 

***

 

Henry at seven is a precocious wonder, reading everything he can get his hands on and chalking out grand adventure plans that make Regina smile and smile.

 

At seven, Henry is also obsessed with flying.

 

His little broomstick never lifts an inch off the floor.

One afternoon, Regina apparates straight to the hospital, heart in her throat and tears streaming down her face, even as a patient mediwitch explains how she’d knitted his broken bones together.

 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he tells her later, his face pale and so, so young. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

 

“You can’t be so reckless, Henry,” Regina says, close to breaking into sobs again. “What if you had hurt your head instead? What if the Sheriff didn’t find you in time?”

 

“I just wanted to fly,” he says, hanging his head.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_The year in sport has been one of tumult and change_ _but for one woman it has been an unbroken story of excellence._

_For the many players who play in non-League teams, Hua Mulan is living proof that their dreams can come true. For those players who put up with the muddy grounds and the ramshackle broomsticks, with peanuts for salary and the constant juggling of a passion named Quidditch with a day job, Mulan’s incredible rise to the top is a real inspiration._

_This is a fairytale where new chapters keep being written._

 -  _The Remarkable Rise of Hua Mulan_ , _American Quidditch, December 2017_

 

“ _Why do you keep asking this stupid question?_   _Gwen and I are just friends.”_

 -  _ _Hua Mulan, Seeker, Storybrooke Sirens__

 

 

Mulan takes to professional Quidditch like a duck takes to water, blending in seamlessly with the team within a week or so of practice.

She’s self-assured and disciplined in a way that Emma never quite managed in her own time. Not at her age, when Emma was still finding her footing in pro Quidditch and foolishly, _recklessly_ picking fights with teammates who looked wrong at her or cracked a joke she didn’t like. Not later, not even after the national team and the world cup, and all the recognition that came with it.

Emma Swan was always _temperamental_ — or so the press liked to call her — chafing against authority and perpetually out of step with everyone else.  

 _You’re lucky you look the way you do, and fly the way you do_ , she remembers being told. At twenty, it was another affront, another excuse to pick a fight with a teammate.

She’s had a lot of time to think about Ursula’s words over the years.

Emma was lucky that she lasted as long as she did. And when her luck ran out, when her story ( _angry blonde misfit with princess curls, can’t follow orders to save her life_ ) grew so dull and stale that even the gossip rags lost interest, she crashed and burned and disappeared into oblivion. It was no more than what she deserved, Emma knows now. If you can’t stand the heat, don’t poke the dragon.

Somehow, she doesn’t think Mulan will ever walk down that route. This girl is a diamond in the rough, and Regina and Marian have their job cut out for them if they want to hold on to her for more than a couple of years.

Meanwhile, Billy sulks with the certainty of a man who knows he’s been replaced and frankly outclassed. Young Rapunzel, still a few years away from playing the first team, takes to following her around with stars in her eyes. Emma watches Mulan practice with the rest of the team and tries not to gloat.

There’s no room for complacency here.

*

There’s no room for complacency here, no, but Emma does preen a little bit when she’s out drinking with Lancelot. They do that sometimes, now.

Lancelot’s good company, closer to her in age than the rest of the players. Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s here at the tail-end of a long, illustrious career in Europe, looking to walk into the sunset after a few years in a less demanding league. He’s got a point to prove to himself, pushing his ageing body forward when so many of his contemporaries have moved on to other things.

Emma’s not one for companionship most of the time, but this is all right, this suits her just fine.  

“I’m glad we got her,” he tells her, more talkative than ever thanks to the good, strong Firewhisky they’ve been downing. They’ve got their own corner at the Rabbit Hole, and they get a special Storybrooke Sirens discount that they try not to abuse too much. “Seekers like that, they win matches.”

“She’s going places,” Emma agrees, proud as a mother hen. It’s a new feeling, having a _protégé_ of sorts.  

Ashley, their waitress, shows up with a round of drinks they didn’t order, pointing to a group of elderly men in red-gold robes. “It’s on those gentlemen over there,” Ashley says, smiling wide. “They wanted to show some love for our coach and captain.” It’s possible she is somewhat taken with Lancelot. But then, who _isn’t_?

“Go Lionhearts!” Lancelot yells, earning himself a round of explosive applause. 

It’s the sort of thing he does all the time, calling the fans by their nickname, shaking hands and posing with small children like he was born for it. He’s used to this, Emma supposes. The Storybrooke community, however passionate, is hardly a match for the legions of fans he’s had to deal with in London and Madrid over the years. Some of them have followed him here, hovering around the Sirens’ practice sessions and contributing to the local economy, a fact very much appreciated by the small business owners in Storybrooke. The Sirens’ official merchandise sells out faster than ever, apparently. Marian has been _very_ pleased about that development.  

Emma was never much for engaging with fans. Though, of course, she would lying if she said she _didn’t_ enjoy the attention of the beautiful women who sometimes made their appreciation known to her.

She recognizes Marco in the crowd, the elderly carpenter who’d practically worked for free — much to Emma’s consternation — when she was setting up her little place. 

“It’s been years since Henry Mills brought the trophy home, coach,” Marco had said, waving away Emma’s attempts to pay him a reasonable amount of money. “I’d like to see it happen once more before I die.”

This is the part that unnerves Emma: the burden, the palpable _weight_ of expectations. 

She doesn’t know how someone like Regina does it day in and day out. 

“Think we stand a chance?” she blurts, more open than she’d intended to be. It’s the drink talking. “I want your honest opinion, Lance. You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me.” It's easier to be cocksure when she's facing Regina Mills.

“To be honest, I don’t know what I expected when I came here," Lancelot says, tapping a finger on his chin, thoughtful. “I mean, I didn’t really follow the American league. Not many people did.”

“ _Ouch_ ,” Emma says in mock-outrage, though it’s hardly a surprise. Most people think of Quodpot when they think of wizarding sports in America. 

“I don’t know what I expected even when I signed the contract,” Lancelot says. “But we’ve got a good thing going, I think.” He throws back the last of his drink and knocks on the wooden table. “I don’t want to jinx it.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Emma says.

 

*

 

There’s no faux pas in the rest of their friendlies, no other Mulan showing up to steal the show (thankfully!).

The Sirens beat the Salem Phoenix in a nail-biting finish, the entire team coming together in extraordinary precision. Emma won’t say she’s proud, not yet, but it’s a beginning. A good one. She’s almost ready to say that they’re up for this challenge. _Almost_. 

Emma sets them a small target, something that’ll get them going in the crucial early games. “I need you to win me five matches. Just five, guys. Forget anything else. I want you to focus just on this,” she tells them in a team meeting, Lancelot standing steady next to her. “Can we do that?”

Perhaps she needs to be more ambitious, to think like _champions_ — a voice at the back of her mind that sounds like Regina Mills tells her exactly that — but this is no time to second guess her strategy. 

And well, this _is_ a team that stood eleventh the last time around, _and_ the year before that, escaping relegation to the second tier by a whisker. Their star, the player Emma is banking on to make a difference, is a rookie. They need a _steady_ start, not some insane scheme that’ll get them nowhere.

“Do we get pizza afterwards?” Ali says, eyes sparkling with mischief. They’ve had a few disagreements on Ali’s usual diet, to put it mildly.   

“Absolutely,” Emma agrees. “We all get pizza.” 

“Will you be buying, boss?” Tamara’s smile is oh-so-innocent.

“You can’t say no, coach,” Yasmin chimes in. “We win you five matches and you buy us pizza. Is that a deal?” 

“Deal,” Emma says. She is not above bribery if it gets the job done.

 

*

 

Emma’s days now begin at dawn, and stretch all the way into the night with only the portraits and night watchmen for company as she pores over strategy. Most days are a blur of formations and flying exercises, passes and feints, blocking and dodging and physical conditioning. She pops into Granny’s for a quick bite when she’s hungry. Some nights, she doesn’t go home at all — if her mostly-bare apartment here can even be called home — and stretches out on the couch in her office. 

One evening, when she’s staring at the numbers for the Camelot Knights match — their first away match — she finds herself in the company of an unexpected visitor. It’s none other than Henry Mills (junior), his smile wide and joyous. 

“You sure you’re allowed to be here, kiddo?” Emma says, anxious. “Where’s your mom? If she finds out you’re here, she’s gonna kill me, and then you, and then me again.” 

It’s not that she isn’t happy to see Henry, who, let’s face it, _is_ her first and probably only friend in Storybrooke, standing drinks with Lancelot notwithstanding. But the fact is that he’s a ten year old who got in trouble _because_ of her is, and that is pathetic even by Emma’s already abysmal standards. She doesn’t _want_ to pick another fight with Regina. 

“Don’t worry,” Henry says, “I got this. She _sent_ me.” 

“ _Really_?” The kid doesn’t sound like he’s lying. 

“Aunt Marian said you’ve been working very late and I was worried grandma’s ghost would get you so Mom said I could go see you. And she sent this,” he says, placing a still-warm container in front of her. “We had leftovers from yesterday.” 

“Wait,” Emma says, raising her hand. “Did you say your grandma’s ghost?” 

“I’m _so_ glad you haven’t met her yet,” Henry says with a grimace. “She’s scary.” 

Emma does _not_ think she’d like to meet Regina’s mother’s ghost. By all accounts, she was a formidable woman who terrorized everyone she met in her lifetime. Clearly, she hasn’t allowed a little thing like death get in the way of that.   

It’s a lot to take in, but Emma’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it comes bearing food. Which she hopes isn’t poisoned. 

“I don’t know why you haven’t met her yet,” Henry muses. “She used to haunt Robin Hood all the time.” 

Emma forgets all about Henry’s grandma’s ghost and the undoubtedly complex reasoning behind Regina allowing Henry to hang out with her after explicitly telling her to stay away from him when she finally opens the container and smells the food in front of her. Some sort of a quiche — chicken? And some green bits in it. 

“Oh my god, kid,” she says when she’s able to speak again. “Do you eat like this everyday at home?” 

Henry shrugs with the disinterest of a child who has never known hunger. “I guess. Mom doesn’t bake everyday, though. And you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.” 

“Your mom is a goddess,” Emma says in all earnestness. “But don’t tell her I said that,” she adds hurriedly. Because that would be inappropriate.

Henry shrugs again, turning his attention to his feet. 

A part of Emma wants to pry: to learn the secrets behind the shadows in his face every time his mother comes up, if only because she wants to chase those shadows away. 

“Are there any other ghosts in Storybrooke?” she asks instead, watching the way his face brightens.

 

*

 

Emma definitely does not spend considerable time lying awake at night and thinking about the unexpected kindness of Regina’s gesture. 

Perhaps it’s just a little something to pacify her son — there’s no way she would send Henry over on her own to Emma’s office without some pleading or emotional blackmail on the kid’s part. Perhaps it’s a peace offering, Regina deciding that Emma is _not_ so terrible at her job. Mulan has been making her presence felt, after all.  It’s a nice thought. 

It’s just that Regina sent her _food_. Warm, home-cooked food that she personally made, no doubt full of all the nutritious stuff that she wants Henry to eat. 

Emma, who still can’t believe sometimes that she has enough to eat or that she can eat whatever the hell she pleases, can’t help but be touched.

 

*

 

It becomes a pattern: Henry drops by at Emma’s office after school, doodling who knows what in his notebooks and doing his homework like a good little nerd. He cheers the team along during practice sessions, adored and spoilt by all, and no one brings up flying carpets or further misadventures. 

Regina doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the leftovers that often seem to make their way to Emma by the way of Henry. 

Winning four straight matches will do that, Emma thinks, allowing herself to be smug for a moment. It’s the best start to the League the Sirens have had in a _long_ time, that’s for sure. Sidney Glass is running a shrill, breathless campaign titled **BLEED RED AND GOLD** . It’s supposed to encourage every citizen of Storybrooke to drape themselves and their households in the Sirens’ colors in a show of support, but all it has done so far is sell a few more robes and mini-Lancelot figures. Marian has had a few meetings with Regina’s sister — Emma had the shock of her life when she wandered into Marian’s office, only to have the disembodied head of Zelena Mills in the fireplace call out, “Oh, so _you’re_ Regina’s _latest_!” — over the possible production of a new line of mini-figures. 

As the next match approaches, Emma can sense a tension settle all over Storybrooke. It has little to do with the Sirens themselves — who are in fine form, if Emma may say so herself — and everything to do with _who_ their opponent is. 

The Misthaven Wanderers do not have a very good record against the Sirens as such. The two teams have been more or less even the few times they’ve played each other in the League Championship. There’s no historical rivalry here — Storybrooke vs Misthaven is _nothing_ like the legendary rivalry between the Sweetwater All-Stars and the Fitchburg Finches, dating back to more than a century. It isn’t anything like the bitterly-fought derbies between the New York Pirates and the New York Dragons. _Lives_ have been lost over _that_ rivalry. The fans still sing songs remembering their fallen. 

There is, of course, that one thing: there’s Regina Mills herself, and the weight of her history with the Misthaven Wanderers. 

Emma sees it in the faces of the strangers who have turned up in Storybrooke just for this game, in far greater numbers than they normally do (much to the joy of the local businessmen). She hears it in the whispered conversations in the streets, in the pointed questions of the reporters who are suddenly everywhere, shoving their quills in her face and asking for her opinions on working with the Evil Queen. 

“Are you guys actually interested in the game, or are you just here for the gossip?” she barks at the group hovering outside Granny’s, disgusted, after _yet another_ round of questions about the Evil Queen. 

She imagines it will show up in the news the day after in some twisted form. Most of the gossip rags do not particularly care for Regina, especially after her blunt refusal to allow reporters within the Sirens’ premises. The _Storybrooke Mirror_ , ever so loyal to Regina, has been running a counter-campaign of outright flattery, hailing her as a visionary out to change the future of Quidditch in America. Sometimes Emma features in Sidney’s fevered narratives as Regina’s right-hand woman and trusted lieutenant, and she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to feel flattered or embarrassed.

The Sirens respect Regina — look up to her, even. But Emma knows they aren’t immune to gossip, like that time she overheard Ali regale Yasmin and Mulan with the popular conspiracy theories about the circumstances of Leopold White’s death. 

 _“Poison, really?”_  

 _“She doesn’t seem like the type to wait to kill anyone for six years.”_  

 _“He was old enough to be her father.”_  

 _“They used to call her the Evil Queen.”_  

 _“That’s a ridiculous name.”_  

It’s the whispers that Emma fears the most. 

In the stories, Regina is the Evil Queen, poisoning poor Leopold White for years before killing him off for good, and then setting out to ruin his legacy by her evil designs until his daughter stepped in and ousted her. Regina has never spoken about that period, never clarified her side of the story, despite multiple offers to write her autobiography for good money. 

It doesn’t help that Snow White, the rightful heir to the Misthaven legacy, is the Quidditch fraternity’s darling. The old men and women who still run most things adore her. Her autobiography, _A powerful magic bright as the sun_ , was a _Witch Weekly_ bestseller. Emma has a copy of it, even though she never did manage to read beyond the first couple of pages. 

The truth, Emma suspects, is a lot more complicated either of them will say. The truth usually always is. 

The Regina who runs the Sirens with such competence feels nothing like the Regina who allowed Misthaven to fall into utter financial disarray — selling off assets left, right, and center, firing staff and eventually promising to sell off their stadium in order to pay off debts. But then, Emma is nothing like the idiot girl who thought she was doing the world a favour by playing Quidditch, either. 

Perhaps she and Regina are alike in some ways.

 

*

 

As the match draws near, Regina is an ominous presence in the stands in every practice session. She does not speak a word to any of the players, let alone Emma or the rest of the support staff, but spends most of her time glowering in their general direction. 

Emma can _feel_ the jitters set in as the days progress. One morning, two days before their match with the Misthaven Wanderers, the Sirens are in utter disarray. Yasmin lets the Quaffle slip on more than one occasion, and Merlin nearly breaks Guinevere’s nose with his Bludger. 

Even the normally impeccable Mulan fumbles with the Snitch, earning herself a stern talking to from Lancelot, who is _visibly_ frustrated. 

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Emma can hear him screaming, even from her position on ground. “What is wrong with _all_ of you? You play like this and you’ll end up in the third division, which is where you _belong_.” 

Mulan, still unused to harsh words from her captain, spends the rest of the morning in a state of utter dejection. Emma has to eventually take her aside and give her a good pep talk until she smiles again. 

She knows what she has to do if she wants to try and salvage this. It won’t be pretty, but _someone_ has to do it.

 

*

 

Regina scowls at Emma when she approaches her in the stands that evening. 

This, this is exactly why Emma _needs_ to do this, although all her courage seems to have deserted her at the sight of Regina Mills in flesh and blood. Perhaps she should’ve spoken with Marian instead.   

“I, uh, wanted to speak with you,” Emma says, trying not make a complete fool of herself. She is here to make a point, regardless of how stony Regina’s expression might be right now. “It’s about our next game.” Their first and _only_ conversation about the Misthaven Wanderers, however innocuous on Emma’s part, did _not_ go down well, to put it mildly. 

Regina stiffens, her grip on the railing in front of her tightening until she’s white-knuckled with the strain. “What about our next game, Coach Swan?” 

Emma _thinks_ she spots a faint hint of a tremble at the corner of Regina’s lips, but that might just be because she’s looking at her a little too closely. There’s a scar just above Regina’s lip that she’s wanted to trace in odd moments. 

“I just wanted to say that there’s a lot of talk going on about this match,” Emma tells her, blunt. “I can understand why, but I don’t want the guys to be nervous or think that it’s anything but another game.” 

“Are you suggesting that _I’m_ making the team nervous, Miss Swan?” There’s a dangerous fire in Regina’s eyes, all-consuming. 

Emma stands her ground, looking Regina in the eye. “You are,” she says. 

“Do not presume to speak on matters that you know _nothing_ about,” Regina says, taking a menacing step forward. 

“You _saw_ them today. You _know_ what happens every time they step out of their homes, or walk into a freaking grocery store,” Emma says, willing Regina to understand. “On top of that, they have you, glaring at them from the stands like you’re planning some sort of _serious_ suffering if they don’t perform. They don’t need this.”   

“It’s _my_ team, Coach Swan, and you would do well to remember that,” Regina growls. “I do not appreciate the _insinuation_ that I don’t know what’s best for my team.” 

“As long as I’m the coach, Madam President, this is _my_ team,” Emma fires back. “I’m trying to do the job you hired me to do.” 

They’re nearly nose to nose again. Emma isn’t sure how this happens every time they argue. 

“I’m asking you to give them a breather, that’s all,” Emma says after a moment’s silence. “I’m not trying to… throw you out of practice or anything.” 

“Aren’t you?” Regina says, her lips stretching into a humorless smile. 

Emma doesn’t have a polite answer to that, because she kind of is.

Regina doesn’t come to practice the next morning, and Emma can almost feel the collective sigh of relief on ground. Even Harry Jekyll seems to breath a little easy that morning. 

Emma thinks she might actually miss the lone figure on the stands.

 

*

 

The Misthaven Wanderers arrive at Storybrooke with the kind of fanfare that should be reserved for a far better team. It’s exactly the kind of drama Emma had anticipated. 

The reporters are _everywhere_ , popping up from behind the bushes to ambush unsuspecting passers by. Granny makes brisk business, overcharging every stranger in Misthaven’s grey and white. 

Sidney Glass runs a ridiculous two page spread with helpful pointers about Regina’s not-so-glorious tenure at Misthaven, albeit in terms that are _mostly_ positive. There’s only so much spin that you can offer about a tenure that was defined by financial disaster and a bitter stand-off between the owner and the fans, leaving wounds that would take years to heal. 

Emma, who has sworn to not read Regina-related gossip in the _Mirror_ , is transfixed by one particular photo: a very young Regina Mills in the company of her ex-husband, a guy — she realises now — old enough to be her father. In the photograph, Leopold White waves at the camera, and Regina shrinks back, as though she wishes she had an Invisibility Cloak. 

Emma knows that urge. Emma has felt that urge all her life. 

The girl in the photograph is young and desperately sad.

 

*

 

Snow White arrives in Storybrooke in the company of _another_ flock of reporters. Emma didn't think there were this many reporters interested in covering Quidditch in the first place. Isn't Quodpot supposed to be the most important wizarding sport in this nation? 

Snow's somehow even prettier in person — her smile wide and warm, guileless. She walks in arm-in-arm with her _equally_ pretty husband, David.

They’re both color co-ordinated, Snow in white and David in gray, the colors of the Wanderers. They pose for the cameras, flashing blinding smiles as the media clamors for _more_. Looking at them, Emma can understand why they’re so damn popular. 

“It’s good to finally meet you,” Emma says when Marian introduces them, cordial. “I’ve always been a fan of the Misthaven Wanderers.”

It's the truth, even if it will displease Regina. 

“I’ve always been _your_ fan, Emma!” Snow smiles, wide and delighted, entirely genuine. “I watched you play for the All-Stars, just a couple of matches of course, but you were absolutely _wonderful_.” It's gratifying. 

And Regina, because she's  _crazy_ , chooses to make a dramatic appearance at that very moment, apparating right behind Snow and making all of them nearly jump out of their skins in shock. Well, all of them except Marian, who seems unfazed by such behavior. 

She has chosen to forego her robes for reasons Emma does not comprehend, considering how much grief she's given Emma for her _awful,_   _informal attire_ in the past. She's in a pant suit that fits her  _very_ well, accentuating her bust and snug in all the right places, and Emma is not to be blamed if she gapes just a little bit because Regain is  _that beautiful_ , damn her. 

“Snow,” she says, flashing a tight smile at Snow White.

She does not appear to acknowledge David at all, who hangs back awkwardly. 

“Regina,” Snow White says. Her smile is tinged with wistfulness. “Always good to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Regina says flatly.

“I’m looking forward to today’s match,” David chimes in, as if to somehow ward off the awkward silence that has set in. Regina and Snow keep _looking_ at each other, with all the weight of a shared history that only they understand. 

“Same here," Marian says, her smile wide. "Shall we?" 

Emma breathes a sigh of relief as Marian leads Snow and David away to the Wanderers' dressing room. _Away from Regina_ , who looks like she's itching to reach for her wand and blast Snow White out of the stadium.

Regina — who's full of surprises today — falls in step next to Emma without another word.

"You're, uh, not gonna be in your box today?" Emma says. 

"Am I not allowed to sit on the bench, Miss Swan?" Regina tells her. "Are you going to throw me out again?"   


*

  


As it turns out, Regina is a shouter, with an elaborate, colorful vocabulary. 

It's probably a good thing she's down here with Emma and the rest of the crew, and not up in the good seats where Henry can hear her. In fact, that's probably _why_ she's chosen this spot. 

That, and the fact that she would have had to share the space with Snow White. 

Misthaven is a formidable opposition, their trio of Chasers going neck-to-neck with Emma's at every opportunity. Ruby Lucas leads the pack, getting the Quaffle past Yasmin twice in the first five minutes. 

They set up a brutal pace, allowing no relief to Merlin and Lancelot, who keep up a steady stream of hits in their direction. 

Tamara and Guinevere keep the score even, and the game grows faster, _dirtier_ as it progresses. Edward Hyde drives the Bludger straight at Mulan’s head, missing her by a whisker. In response, Merlin sets his broom on fire, earning himself a stern warning and a penalty for the Wanderers. 

It’s beginning to look like a game that will be decided by the Seeker. And Aurora Rose, the Misthaven Seeker, is nothing if not a damned good one. 

Their strategy was to contain Aurora, known for her sudden spurts of speed and deceptively simple feints. That strategy, Emma realizes, is beginning to fall apart as Merlin and Lancelot spend more time trying to contain the Misthaven Chasers instead, giving Aurora free reign.

“Get her, you fuckwit,” Regina screams as Lucas shoots past Merlin with little effort, getting another shot past Yasmin and into the Sirens’ goal.   

It's the fact that her players are _also_ losing their temper that truly concerns Emma, judging by the unnecessary fight Lancelot picks up with Ella. Another penalty in favor of Misthaven. Yasmin can only watch as Lucas gets the Quaffle past her with little effort. 

Emma is praying for Mulan to pull through, despite Hyde sticking to her like her shadow. His tactic is to distract her, judging by the steady stream of chatter he keeps up directed at her. 

It’s working, because Mulan snaps at him — exactly what Emma was fearing. The referee warns them both, but Hyde is grinning, unconcerned. 

The back-and-forth grows faster, faster. It’s probably the best game the Sirens have played so far. The Chasers are keeping the score even, but it’s the Snitch they need. There’s a brief moment when Emma thinks Mulan’s nearly got it, but Hyde, in what has to be one of the _ugliest_ moves Emma has seen in a long time, restrains her by physically grabbing hold of the tail of her broom.

The crowd erupts in angry boos, and play stops in a moment of chaos, with Lancelot having to restrain a livid Merlin from beating Hyde with his bat. 

“I’ll _kill_ him,” Regina growls. “I’ll _rip_ his throat out with my bare hands.”

Emma can’t say she disagrees with the sentiment. “He’s a fucking thug,” she says, shaking her head. 

It gets the Sirens a penalty, but the Snitch is long gone. 

And then, the worst happens: Aurora Rose emerges from behind Lancelot in a sudden burst of speed, whizzing past Ali and Tamara as she moves towards the Misthaven goal. Mulan isn’t far behind, no, but Edward Hyde — curse that man — aims a Bludger that hits her straight on the back, slowing her down for a brief moment, a heartbeat. 

A moment is all a Seeker like Aurora needs.

In the cacophony that ensues after Aurora’s catch, Emma only has eyes for one person. Regina says nothing, does nothing except turn and walk away, her back held straight even in defeat.

 

*

 

Gloom hangs over the dressing room afterwards, with Emma doing her best to cheer them up. Mulan is inconsolable, placing most of the blame on herself despite the fact that she’s just had to take three different potions for that Bludger injury of hers. It’s her first major loss in a tournament like this. Emma can understand. 

“Is the pizza thing still on?” Ali says, trying to lighten the air. 

“It better be,” Lancelot says, smiling. “The deal was five matches, not five consecutive matches, right?” 

“The deal was _winning_ five matches,” Emma tells them, stern. “You lost.” 

“You drive a hard bargain, boss,” Ali says. 

“You win us the next match, and _then_ we’ll talk,” says Emma.

 

*

 

She’s not sure what takes her to Regina’s office after she’s sent everyone home. It’s been a long day — a long week. Month. Emma should head home, because she’s _tired_. 

Perhaps it’s the memory of Regina after the game, her back ramrod straight as she walked away. Perhaps it’s the fact that Emma _hates_ losing, _hates_ the feeling that comes with every loss, no matter how much she tells herself that it’s part of the game. 

She isn’t allowed to fall apart, no, isn’t allowed to _wallow_ and drown herself in self-pity like she once would. She’s grown and moved beyond all that. She’s _better_ than that. 

Regina doesn’t look surprised to see her there. She has a glass in her hand, and a bottle of what looks like expensive red wine. 

“Shouldn’t you have gone home by now?” Emma says, even as she takes a seat on the chair that draws itself at the wave of Regina’s wand. 

“Yes,” Regina says. “Drink, Coach Swan?” 

Another wave of her wand, and a glass pours itself. Emma reaches for it without another word.

They drink in companionable silence. Perhaps Emma came here because she needed the quiet, too. Needed a place where she could sit and... process. 

“The other day,” Emma says eventually. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that we can’t afford to look at any opponent as special, or different.” Not that it made a bloody difference, but she's not going to tell Regina that. 

“I’m well aware,” Regina agrees, surprisingly docile. 

“You’re welcome to watch us practise anytime,” Emma says. She feels the need to add that, though it might be somewhat redundant to _invite_ Regina to watch her own team practise. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Regina says, her lips curving up in a slight smile. Emma can't help but be transfixed by the smile. The wine has made her mellow, agreeable in a way she seldom is. 

Emma can’t _help_ but be drawn to this side of her, _can’t_ help but say, “I… it’s not my business to pry, either —” 

“You’ve already made it your business, haven’t you?” Regina says, turning the glass round and round on the table. She doesn't look at Emma. 

“Anything that affects my team _is_ something that I have to be involved in,” Emma says defensively,

She expects Regina to brush her off, to respond with something characteristic and harsh. What she doesn’t expect is the way Regina turns her gaze at Emma, sharp, and says, “I wish we didn’t have to play them at all.” There's nothing but honesty in her eyes, and a depth of feeling — of pain — Emma didn't quite expect. It _blows_ her away, if she's perfectly honest. 

They don't speak for a while after that. 

Emma wishes she had the words to tell Regina that she _understands_ what it’s like to have a past that won't leave her behind, no matter how much she tries to outfly it.

They're in this together now, tied by bonds that are deeper than just the contract that Emma signed when she took this job. 

Eventually, it's Regina who breaks the silence. “I have to head home," she says, sounding somewhat apologetic. "Henry is waiting for me.” 

“Yes, I —” 

“You should have dinner with us tomorrow,” Regina says, looking away from Emma. "Marian will be there as well."  

"Wait, really?" Emma blurts. She doesn't understand what this is, why Regina would  _invite_ her to her  _home_. Her  _home_ that she  _shares with her son_. Just how drunk  _is_ Regina?

And because Emma's stomach often thinks ahead of her, she adds, "Will you be cooking?"

“Yes, Miss Swan,” Regina says, "I'll be cooking." She does get a smile this time, even if it is distant, somewhat unfocused. 

It's probably a pity invite, Emma later decides. But then, Regina Mills is an odd, mercurial woman. Call her a glutton, but there's no way Emma's going to miss out on an opportunity to eat more of her fantastic food, that's for sure. 

 

***


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for some references to ableism in this chapter, albeit in a very wizard-specific way.

_Ask a Siren to describe their coach, and they break into purple prose._

_“She’s magic,” [Merlin] Smith says with real passion. “I think if you give her a candle to hold, it would light up. She has that energy, that spark. High quality is fantastic but it is how you are here,” he says, pointing to the heart._

_\- "The Storybrooke Sirens' Story", August Wayne Booth_

 

 _“The management isn’t up to the mark. A pity, really.”_  

__\- Cora Mills, ghost, Storybrooke forest_ _

 

 

Marian cancels on her at the last moment, citing an emergency meeting with Regina’s sister who just _happens_ to need to meet her on that very evening.  

“Since when does she consult you about design?” Regina demands, irritated beyond belief. Trust Zelena to just show up and insist on being catered to, without considering the convenience of others. “Since when does Zelena consult _anyone_ about design?” she says, because her sister is nothing is not zealously protective of her precious work.  

“The Mulan mini figures sold out,” Marian explains. “Zelena thinks we should do special editions.” 

“And she needs to discuss this over dinner with you?” Regina says, not caring if she sounds petulant. 

There are perhaps times when she’s resentful of how much time Marian spends with her sister, which is absolutely not fair to Marian _or_ their friendship. Marian is allowed to have other friends, especially when the said friends are also Regina's sister. 

Regina asks too much, takes too much. It’s who she’s always been. 

“I’ll tell her you said hi,” Marian says, blowing a flippant kiss in Regina’s direction.

*

Emma Swan is visibly nervous when she pulls up in front of Regina’s house in her ridiculous little car. 

The car is a hideous yellow thing, but Swan insists on driving it around town for reasons best known to herself. Storybrooke has accepted it as one of her many eccentricities — embraced it, even. Sidney devoted an entire two page spread to Coach Swan and her love for the no-maj world, featuring the awful car front and center, as well as the equally awful cell phone with its shattered screen that Emma refuses to let go of, despite the generally poor state of reception in Storybrooke thanks to magical interference. Regina is fairly certain she has seen an uptick in the number of cars in town after Emma Swan’s arrival. 

“Here,” Emma says, thrusting a large basket into Regina's hands. “For your hospitality.” 

“Thank you,” Regina says. “Come in, please.” 

Emma is stiff and formal, taking off her shoes and her jacket and complimenting Regina on her decor. It's a far cry from the woman who had the nerve to throw Regina out of practise, or barge into her office and _demand_ she hire a no-name player of her choice, _now._  

But then, as Regina has found, Emma Swan is a curious mix of cocksure and tongue-tied, polite to a fault and outrageously rude. 

She cannot help but admit that it adds to her charm. Not that Regina has found her _charming_ under _any_ circumstance. It's a figure of speech, nothing more. Theirs is a professional relationship. 

Emma brightens when she spots Henry, who greets her like a long lost friend. 

It _hurts_ that Henry keeps choosing this _stranger_ over her, as he’s done with Marian and his aunt Zelena in the past. Regina’s powerless to stop it, to stop her mind from going over the harsh words he hurled at her after their last blow-up. 

But it's been one of their better days today, and Regina can't — _won't_ — ruin that. She _chose_ to let this go the day she sent Henry back to her, with a tupperware box full of leftovers as a peace offering of sorts.  

Henry keeps up a steady stream of conversation, sparing Regina the trouble of having to make small talk with Emma Swan. He tells Emma about his day at school, about the lessons he’s learned today and how he nearly beat Merlin arm-wrestling this time, _I really did, Emma, stop that_.  

Regina will socialize with Emma Swan for this laughter alone.   

 

*

 

Later that night, Henry lets her tuck him in with minimum fuss, although that might also have something to do with his being half-asleep, utterly worn out from the evening's excitement in the company of his idol. Regina supposes that's another thing she should be grateful to Emma Swan about. 

“We're gonna win,” he mumbles when she presses a kiss to his forehead. “I know we will.” 

“I hope we do, my little prince,” Regina says. 

Regina is far too old to have Henry's simple faith in the world, _or_ in the extraordinary abilities of Emma Swan. Fairytales aren't real, and the underdogs usually remain in the bottom of the pile, despite their best efforts to emerge out of it. The last game was a reminder of that, if nothing else. 

“You have to believe, Mom,” Henry tells her, struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“I'll try,” she says. “Now sleep.” 

Henry believes with all his heart — believes that miracles can happen and that fairytales are real. Even the knowledge of his adoption — the source of _so many_ conflicts between them — has never quite managed to shake that unflinching faith of his.  

Regina watches him sleep, peaceful and so, so young. She watches him and worries about what might happen when even that believing heart of his isn't enough.

*

 

There is more socialization in store for Regina, as it turns out.

The Sirens beat the Rochester Ravens in a decisive victory, even without Mulan in the first team after her injury last week. It’s a much-needed relief after the devastation of the previous game. 

“You and Henry are joining us for pizza at Granny’s tomorrow night, right?” Emma says, walking up to her after the match, triumphant. “I promised the guys pizza if they won five matches.” 

“Granny’s food is sub-standard,” Regina tells her, even if she can’t keep the smile off her face.    

“You don’t pay me enough to afford anything else,” Emma says, rolling her eyes.   

“I’m not making any promises,” Regina says. 

But Regina does show up, with Marian and a very excited Henry in tow, and manages to spend the entire evening eating far too many slices of Granny’s (sub-standard) pizza. She can’t recall the last time she spent an evening like this with the Sirens — the players, the staff, _everyone_ — one filled with genuine celebration and buoyant hope that she cannot quite suppress, despite her best efforts to remain cautious.

Hope is a foul, deceitful thing, but Regina has always been susceptible to its charms, falling for it far too often. 

Emma sidles up to her booth at one point, taking a seat opposite Regina and offering her another slice of pizza that Regina is forced to decline. “No pineapples,” she tells Emma, who makes a face at her. 

“Who _doesn’t_ like pineapples on their pizza?” Emma says in mock-outrage. She takes a massive bite out of the slice as if to prove her point.  

It leaves a smudge of red on her chin, and Regina reaches out without thought, dabbing at it with a paper napkin as she would with Henry. She withdraws her hand hastily when she sees Emma’s face, frozen in something like shock. Her eyes are very wide. 

“You had something on your face,” Regina says stiffly, feeling her face grow hot with embarrassment. 

“Yeah,” Emma says. “I’m kind of a messy eater. I mean, thanks.” 

They’re both quiet for a moment. It’s not an awkward moment, no, but a silence charged with _something_ that Regina does not have the right words for.  

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Emma tells her. She sounds entirely sincere. 

“Henry wanted it,” Regina says with a shrug. It's only partly true. 

“Well, we _all_ appreciate that _Henry_ came to spend the evening with us,” Emma says, holding Regina's gaze.  

Regina's whole world seems to shrink at that moment, the chaos and the noise of the diner fading away as she gazes into Emma's eyes. She thinks of an evening many, many years ago — an evening she knows Emma does not remember. 

It's tempting to see where the evening might take them, to let herself go with the flow of this moment where it's just the two of them and this _pull_ that somehow hasn't faded, even after all these years, even if one of them has no memory of it.  

“We can't afford to be complacent,” Regina blurts, desperate to break the tension and go back to lightness of before. Theirs is a professional relationship, after all. 

“And we won't be,” Emma tells her. “Your team was in the bottom of the pile for two years in a row. Give them something to celebrate. Just, trust me on this.” 

Regina does, the gods help her — despite her best efforts, Regina truly does. 

It would seem that Henry's unflinching faith in his hero has started to have effect on Regina as well, reminding her of that girl — long gone, now — who once elbowed past an entire security team to ask the star Seeker for an autograph.

 

*

 

The Sirens begin to climb up the league table with a string of victories. The _Mirror_ is in hysterics about it, Sidney's quill producing more purple prose than Regina thought was possible. 

It's not _just_ the _Mirror_ that's in a state of nervous excitement — the town itself seems to have woken up by the touch of some miraculous wand. There's a sense of hope in every corner, in the eyes of every man and woman Regina encounters as she goes about her day.  

 _Is this it_ , the town seems to be thinking. Will this _finally_ be the end of decades of ignominy, of hoping and suffering and waiting, waiting?  

Regina, who has never managed to build a single thing in her life, wishes she had something more to offer to them than her reassuring, managerial smile. 

Then, of course, there's Henry, who swings between wild excitement over the Sirens’ impending fairytale victory — he's already scripted a victory speech for Regina, and Regina hasn't had the heart to tell him that she might not have the opportunity to deliver it — and moody, sullen silence. It was foolish, _foolish_ on her part to assume that a good day or even a good week might mean the end of this. How could it, when the problem itself is so terrifying, so far beyond the grasp of his young self? _Or_ that of his mother, for that matter. 

For all his faith, for all his unflinching belief in the possibility of a fairytale for the Storybrooke Sirens, the _unfairness_ of his own fate is a knot too hard for him to untie. He's a curious boy, always has been, asking questions that go unanswered. Perhaps a better mother would have had the right answers in store for Henry.  

A better mother would have equipped him to deal with everything the world will throw at him as he grows older. 

One evening, after a long and exhausting conversation with Marian, Regina proposes the only thing she thinks _might_ help. “Do you think you'd like to talk to Dr. Hopper, sweetheart?” she tells him, her heart filled with trepidation. “I could book an appointment tomorrow if you want.”

She can't protect him from the world, can't protect him from the demons that he fights all on his own — the same demons that have him lashing out at her and then crying over his own harsh words. Perhaps Archie could — 

He looks up at her, his eyes blank. “Will Dr. Hopper fix my magic?” 

“I don't think he can do that, baby,” Regina says, unable to hold back the tears that spill from her eyes. “And listen, Henry, no, _look at me_ ,” she tells him when he won't meet her gaze. “There's nothing _wrong_ with you, do you understand that? You're absolutely fine the way you are. You're _perfect_.” 

“Then why do you want to send me to Dr. Hopper?” Henry asks, heartbreak written all over his face. 

“To talk, sweetheart. Just to talk,” Regina says. 

“I don't wanna talk to Dr. Hopper,” Henry says, stubborn, and Regina makes a silent vow to bring the topic up again on another day.  

That night, after dinner, Regina goes upstairs to tuck him in, only to find his bed empty. The window is open, which could only mean — 

Regina rushes to her bedroom next door and does the only thing she can think of. She picks up the seldom used telephone and dials a number she has never had reason to use. 

And — thank god for small mercies — she manages to get through to Emma Swan, despite the notoriously terrible cellular reception all over Storybrooke. 

“Is Henry with you?” Regina says without preamble, hoping, _hoping_ — 

“No?” Emma says. “I'm at Granny's, why — ” 

Regina drops the receiver and apparates in the middle of the diner, not caring how crazed she might appear to the few patrons who stare at her.

 

***

 

Eric, the night watchman, is mostly used to snoozing on the job. There are many complex charms and wards around the Sirens’ facilities to ensure no one unsavory gets in — there isn’t much for the watchman to watch. What he’s _not_ used to is the owner of the Storybrooke Sirens showing up in the middle of the night and _shaking_ him awake, screaming, “ _Have you seen Henry?_ ”  

“Huh,” Eric says, trying to rub sleep out of his eyes. “Ms. Mills, I —” 

“The kid’s smart, Regina,” Emma says, saving poor Eric the trouble. “I don’t think he waited for Eric to let him in.” 

Regina nods, grim, and reaches out to grab Emma’s hand. “I think I know where he went,” she says. It sounds ominous. 

They apparate right in front of the Exhibits Gallery, the one with the trophies and broomsticks and — 

“The flying carpet?” Emma says. Because yes, _he would_. “Damn it, kid!”  

“Henry has always been a curious boy,” Regina says, pushing the door open. 

It doesn’t take them long to spot the missing exhibit. 

“ _Damn it_ ,” Emma says again. He’s a ten year old with zero magic at his disposal, and an ancient flying carpet with a mind of its own. It could have taken him _anywhere_. Dread pools in her gut, her mind flashing with a million possibilities, each one more dire than the next.  

She follows Regina out of the gallery, gripped with an acute sense of impotence. There’s a healthy dose of guilt involved, which is just as well. _She_ introduced Henry to that damned carpet when she should have known better. She’s spent most of her life being reckless and answering to no one, and that has never worked for her. She’s _supposed_ to have become better at this by now.   

“In here late, aren’t you?” says the portrait — Archibald Peabody, 1757-1809 — in front of them. 

“Have you seen Henry, Archibald?” Regina says. There isn’t a portrait in these parts that doesn’t know Henry Mills. 

“I saw him,” says Archibald. “He had some sort of an Oriental carpet in his hands. Fascinating thing, didn’t see many of those in my time.” 

“He’s a very active one, that boy,” chimes in another portrait (Edward McDougal, 1762-1812). “Reminds me of myself in my youth.” 

“He could be anywhere,” Regina says, wrapping her arms around herself. She sounds more helpless than Emma could ever imagine. It’s takes real effort to keep her hands to herself, to _not_ reach out and squeeze her shoulder. “The flying carpet harnesses ancient magic, far beyond the reach of average magic users let alone a ten year old boy.” She nearly chokes on the last word, and looks away from Emma as though to mask her tears. 

“This is why GPS comes in handy,” Emma mutters. A fat lot of good it would do in these parts. 

Regina looks at her in seeming incomprehension, but then she’s shaking her head and casting a neat little _vestigium_ charm that has the entire corridor light up in little Henry-shaped footprints. “I should have thought of that earlier,” she says and reaches out for Emma’s hand again.  

She’s done a lot of that tonight — not that Emma’s keeping count, except she kind of is — but now is _not_ the time on focus on anything other than finding Henry.  

The footprints lead them to a wide balcony that overlooks the grounds. 

“He must have taken off from here,” Emma says, feeling Regina shudder. 

They’re still holding hands, sort of, and Emma turns her hand so that they’re palm to palm and she can take hold of Regina’s hand in what she hopes is a comforting grip. Her eyes are dark, _terrified_ , and it’s hard _not_ to pull her close and hold her until she stops trembling.   

This time, Regina’s _vestigium_ charm yields a little ball of light that pauses mid-air, as though waiting for them to follow.  

“I’ll get us brooms,” Emma says. 

It’s a beautiful night for flying, the air cool and crisp and the stars shining down upon them. If she weren’t so worried about the kid’s whereabouts, she might have even enjoyed this

 

*

 

The little ball of light leads them out of town bounds, towards a vast area of darkness that Emma has little idea about. Emma Swan is a city girl, through and through. The forests on the edge of Storybrooke have held little appeal for her. 

Beside her, Regina freezes. “It’s leading us to the forest,” she says, making no attempt to mask the fear in her voice. 

“What’s in the forest?” Emma blurts, before recognizing the foolishness in asking such a question. It’s a vast forest on the edges of a wizarding town, and Henry is a ten year old with no access to magic. “Wait, don’t answer that.” 

She can feel the slight chill in the air. Strange sounds pierce the cover of darkness, only to fade into an ominous silence. The forest is very much _alive_ , and not necessarily populated by benevolent wood sprites.  

As they move deeper into the forest, the foliage grows more and more dense, making it difficult to navigate with their brooms. It’s a good thing Emma has some practice dodging Bludgers, even after all these years. 

The little ball of light hovers over a particularly creepy-looking tree, and disappears with a loud _pop_.

“We’re close,” Regina says. 

They descend swiftly to the ground, lighting up the tips of their wands for better visibility. “Henry?” Emma calls out. “Henry!” 

Her voice echoes in the near-darkness, until it feels as though the trees are calling out Henry’s name, the leaves rustling and whispering, _Henry, Henry, Henry_.  

Emma finds herself reaching for Regina’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “He’s okay,” she tells Regina. “We’ll find him.”

 

*

 

They walk together in silence until Emma loses all sense of time or place. 

Emma _should_ be the person holding it together here. Regina’s out here looking for her _son_ — her son who’s _only ten_ and on his own in this vast, dark forest, lost and possibly _terrified_. Her son, who’s too curious for his own good. Who believes in Emma is some sort of a savior for the Storybrooke Sirens, and her first real friend in Storybrooke.  

Emma wants to throw up, or maybe just sit down in the middle of the forest and cry. 

But Regina, _god_ , Regina’s a steady presence next to her, stern and unyielding and trudging right along. Emma cannot imagine the strength that’s keeping her upright at the moment. Her face is resolute in the half-light from their wands.   

She nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears the silken voice in her ear, somewhat amused and distinctly masculine. 

“Aren’t _you_ a sight for sore eyes,” it says, and Emma’s very close to casting an Unforgivable Curse when she spots the owner of the voice. It’s — _he_ is distinctly masculine, yes, and sporting a roguish smile on his smile. He’s wearing a long trench coat and has a hook where a hand should be. He’s also translucent, that is to say, very, very dead.  

It figures she’d run into one of Henry’s ghosts while out on a midnight trip through the forest to find him. 

“What do you want, Hook?” Regina sounds sour. She’s clearly familiar with their ghostly companion. 

“You wound me, my lady,” the ghost says, placing a translucent hand on his non-existent heart. “I’m here to _help_. You’re looking for the lad, aren’t you?”   

“If anything’s happened to my son — ” 

“You’ll what, kill me?” The ghost laughs, cutting Regina off mid-snarl. He sounds positively delighted with himself. “Can’t kill a dead man, love.” 

“That’s enough,” Emma says. “If you know where Henry is, tell us. We don’t have all night.” 

“Ooh, you’re a tough lass,” he says, no, _leers_ . It’s outright disturbing. “I _do_ like that in a woman.”  

“Do you know where Henry is?” Emma repeats, firm. 

“Aye,” the ghost says. “Follow me.” 

He leads them up to a clearing in the forest. Emma spots a fire, and wait — that _is_ Henry, definitely Henry, legs drawn up in front of him as he stares at the fire. His face is very pale. The flying carpet is neatly folded up next to him.  

“Henry,” Regina cries out. “Henry!” 

He’s wrapped up in his mother’s arms in an instant, Regina peppering kisses on his face and smoothing back his hair while he clings to her just as tight. Emma’s not much for sentimentality, but she’s blinking back tears as she watches the mother-son duo reunite, with so much love between them that it’s near impossible to imagine them at odds with each other at any point. Families are like that, Emma supposes. 

Not that she knows anything about families. 

Hook choses to ruin the moment by saying, “I think we make quite the team, love.” _Right_ in her ear. Again.  

“I don’t,” Emma tells him. “Also, you’re _dead_.”  

The fact that a _ghost_ is _hitting_ on her sort of sums up this entire night. The kid’s lucky she’s so fond of him.   

“What’s a little death between kindred spirits, my dear?” He says, flashing her another one of his translucent smiles. “You and I, we understand each other.” 

“Pretty sure we don’t,” Emma says. 

She doesn’t _want_ to interrupt her living companions and disrupt their beautiful mother and son moment, but perhaps it’s time they left this awful forest. The company is less than inviting.   

“Say what you will, lass, but I can see the look in your eyes,” Hook tells her. “It’s the look that you get when you’ve been left alone.” 

“I would prefer if _you_ left me alone, thanks.”  

Emma’s almost relieved when they’re interrupted by yet another voice, this one distinctly feminine. She doesn't exactly enjoy being psychoanalyzed by a lecherous ghost. “So you finally decided to show up,” the voice says, sharp. “I was beginning to think you had abandoned the boy, Regina.” 

The owner of the voice, it becomes evident, is _also_ a ghost — just as translucent as Hook, but with the bearing of a queen, even in death.  

Regina looks at her as though stung. She puts a protective arm around Henry. 

“Thank you for looking after him, Mother,” Regina says stiffly. 

 _Oh_.  

Well. Emma can say she’s _glad_ Cora Mills hasn’t chosen to haunt her.  

“It’s the least I can do for the Mills legacy,” Cora says. “ _Considering_ that you’ve banished me to the forest.”  

“We’ll be going home now,” Regina says, paying no heed to the ghost’s complaint. And well, if Regina _did_ banish the terrifying ghost of her mother to the forest, Emma doesn’t think she’s to be blamed. At all. “Thank you again, Mother,” she says stiffly.  

Emma is no one to comment on mothers or daughters, but it doesn’t look like the easiest relationship. 

She grabs the flying carpet and rolls it under her arm, ready to poof out of the accursed forest as soon as Regina is. 

“Have you taken care of the boy’s _little_ problem yet?” Cora Mills says, sickly-sweet and _poisonous_.  

Emma can feel herself bristle at her tone, even if she has no idea what Cora might be insinuating. Henry is _right here_ . Whatever the kid might be, whatever issues might have prompted him to run away with a flying carpet and give his mother a heart attack, he’s not a _problem_ that has to be resolved.

Emma has had a lifetime of dealing with people who like to think of kids as _problems_ , and frankly, she's had enough. She’s getting ready to fight the ghost when Regina says, “It isn’t any of your business, Mother. Good night.” 

And again, she reaches for Emma’s arm without a word, and they apparate straight into the Mills living room.

 

*

Afterwards, Henry is the picture of penitence.

“I just wanted to see what I could do,” he says, eyes fixed on the ground while Regina fusses over the scrapes on his arms and knees, and heals them one by one. “I didn’t expect the carpet to be so… powerful. It’s like it had a mind of it’s own!” 

“The flying carpet was a gift from Agrabah to your grandfather, Henry, you know that,” Regina says gently. “Why did you think it would be anything _but_ powerful?”  

“I’m sorry,” Henry says, genuinely penitent. Perhaps a wild magic carpet ride into the depths of the forest and a few hours in his ghostly grandmother’s company was a sobering experience. “I just wanted to see what it’s like to fly on my own,” he says. 

Regina looks at him for a moment — a silent conversation between mother and son that Emma doesn’t quite grasp — and then presses a swift kiss on his forehead. “I understand that, I do, Henry,” she says, sounding anguished. “But you _have_ to stop being so reckless.” 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, eyes fixed on his feet. “I thought I’d be back before you found out.” 

Regina hugs him tight, pressing more kisses on his face that he allows without squirming away. Emma feels as though she's witnessing something intensely private, something she  _shouldn’t_ be witnessing at all. But she’s powerless, as always, to look away from this particular mother and son duo. 

“We’ll talk about your punishment in the morning, young man,” Regina says when she draws back. There are tears in her eyes, but she’s also smiling. “Don’t think you aren’t grounded for the rest of eternity.” 

“Ugh,” Henry says. 

“It’s time for bed,” Regina tells him. “But before that, you should apologize to Emma for disrupting her evening."

"No," Emma says, alarmed at the reference to her name. "I mean, it's not a big deal. I didn't have plans or anything." She realizes it makes her sound like a tremendous loser with no social life of her own to speak of, but then, Emma is exactly that — she really did  _not_ have any other plans than a leisurely dinner at Granny's and going to sleep in her office couch after watching a few more videos of the team's practice sessions. "You don't have to apologize!"

Henry gets up from the couch and enfolds her in a warm hug that she wasn’t expecting.

Emma's never sure what to _do_  in times like this, so she hesitantly wraps her arms around him. 

“I’m sorry, Emma,” he tells her, earnest. “I’m glad you came to find me.”

“No problem, kiddo,” she says, a little overwhelmed by this show of affection. “Just don’t run away again.” 

 

*

 

Emma should leave, she  _really_ should, but she also cannot bring herself to move from her comfortable perch on Regina's couch.

It's only a little past eleven — they spent two hours or so in that accursed forest. She's a lot more tired than she imagined she would be. But then, she supposes, trudging through a dark forest and being accosted by ghosts will do that to you. 

They're lucky it was just ghosts and not some other monsters in that forest. Regina's mother seemed pretty terrifying on her own, of course, and Emma's fairly certain her comments were meant to hurt Regina. 

She doesn't know much about families or _good_  mothers, but Emma can recognize a bad parent when she sees one — seven foster homes in eleven years offered her plenty of experience in that particular area. There's no way Cora Mills was a _nice_ mom in any shape or form, and so of course she's chosen to stick around, just to harass her daughter even after death and lecture her about her grandson's problems. 

She cannot imagine how exhausted Regina must be feeling at the moment. All the more reason for Emma to move and  _leave_ , let Regina be. 

Regina looks wan when she comes downstairs, presumably after having put Henry to bed.  

Emma is lost in thought when Regina comes downstairs, looking wan. None of her resolute energy remains, and what she’s left with is very simply an exhausted set of her shoulders, a certain tightness in the corner of her eyes. 

“I don’t know how to begin to thank you,” Regina begins, wringing her hands together. She’s so _human_ in this moment, so _small_ that all Emma wants to do is just make her _stop_ doing this, this hand-wringing and thanking Emma, like she's some sort of a hero. 

“Anytime,” Emma says with a smile. “You don’t have to thank me or anything.”

It’s embarrassing, but at least she hasn’t called him the savior like her son likes to do.

“I know that this is not something I should have asked you to do," Regina persists. "It's  _not_ your job —” 

“Hey!” Emma protests. “It’s not about my job, okay? I really do care about the kid.” 

“I know,” Regina says with a small, grateful smile. “Still, thank you.” 

Their eyes meet, and Emma finds herself unable to look away. 

“I know it’s late and you probably need to rest,” Regina says, suddenly hesitant, “but would you like a drink before you leave?” 

“I could use a drink,” Emma agrees. 

 

*  

 

They settle in Regina’s study, glass of cider in hand.

The couch is even nicer here, so soft that Emma wants to lie down and never get up again. The truth is, she doesn’t want to leave Regina alone after a harrowing evening like this, not right now, not so soon. _She_ doesn’t want to be alone after an evening like this. 

Regina stares into the distance, her cider forgotten. The silence isn't awkward, exactly. It's... pensive. 

“I should apologize too,” Emma tells her eventually, needing to speak out loud the thought that's been on her mind all evening. This _is_ her fault, to a certain extent. She needs to  _say_ that. “I shouldn’t have introduced him to the joys of that carpet in the first place.” 

“You’ve already apologized for that,” Regina says, still thoughtful.“It was a matter of time, anyway. Henry has known about that carpet all his life. I’m just surprised that he didn’t make away with it sooner.” 

“He’s a curious kid,” Emma says, unable to help the fond smile on her face. 

“It’s… more than that,” Regina says, hesitant. She looks down, her face obscured by a mass of brown hair. 

Emma waits for Regina to say more. It sounds like something she wants to discuss. 

“It’s… There’s a reason why I asked you to never discuss flying or playing Quidditch with Henry,” Regina says, sudden anguish in her voice. “I realise it’s a lost cause, considering what I do for a living. It’s his whole life. And our legacy.” Her lips stretch out in a bitter smile. 

Emma wants to reach out and hold her hand again. She _could_ do that, if she just placed this glass down and —

“I adopted him from a no-maj adoption agency when he was three weeks old,” Regina tells her. “I tried for _years_ , but _no one_ in the wizarding community would allow the Evil Queen to adopt a child. I was Leopold White’s widow and I wasn’t rich or _white_ enough.” There's enough hurt in her voice that Emma's heart aches in response.  “There was always some excuse or the other, always something and I just, I just wanted a _child_ , Emma. I wanted a child and I was so, _so_ selfish. I wasn’t thinking what it might mean to bring a child from a no-maj background into the magical world.” 

It strikes her, then. The shadows that sometimes descend on Henry's face. Cora's snide remarks on his _problem_. 

“He doesn’t have magic,” Emma says. It’s not a question. 

“I don’t know,” Regina says. “He hasn’t shown any sign so far. He understands more magical theory than most ten year olds, and he commands magical objects to the best of his ability, but he doesn’t seem to have any innate command over magic. He might never develop the ability.” 

Emma’s heart _hurts_.

She can’t imagine what being called a Squib must have done to a boy as sensitive as Henry. The word might be deemed a slur now, but there's no way he hasn't heard kids say it. She can't imagine what the knowledge that he may _never_ get a letter, _never_ go off to magic school like most of his friends will must feel like for him.

She wonders if he's been bullied at school, if _that's_ why he spends more time running around with the Sirens than with kids his own age.  

“I’m not ashamed of it,” Regina says, suddenly fierce. “I’m  _not_ ashamed of him. My son is a bright, curious boy and I’m _proud_ of him.” 

“Hey,” Emma says. This time she does reach out, and rest her hand gently on top of Regina’s. “Henry is a _wonderful_ kid. Anyone who thinks there’s something to be ashamed of him should be ashamed of _themselves_ ,” she says, with every ounce of conviction that she feels inside.

She has memories of her own childhood — of being the weird kid who doesn’t fit in — resurfacing. The orphan, with no family and nowhere to go. What did that horrible ghost say? She has the look of someone who has been left behind.

“I grew up in the no-maj foster system,” she says, earning a surprised glance from Regina. “I bounced around from house to house. I was always that weird kid who had strange things happen around her.” 

“You had magic,” Regina says, nothing but compassion in her gaze. She laces her fingers through Emma's and holds her hand, firm. 

“I did,” Emma says. This isn’t about her. Of course not. Emma is a grown woman, not a child. She just wants to get across to Regina that she understands. That Regina  _shouldn't_  beat herself up over something beyond her control, especially when she's given Henry the most precious gift of them all — she's given him a home and  _loved_ him. "I was terrified all the time," she tells Regina. "I was  _convinced_ no one wanted me because there was something wrong with me. I was _ashamed_ of who I was. Regina, I would have _killed_ to have a mother who loved me and accepted me as I was, even if I was this weird freak who made things explode and talked to snakes.”

She remembers telling Regina, in a fit of anger,  _haven't you noticed how unhappy he is?_

Emma Swan is an  _idiot_. 

But Regina is listening to her in rapt attention, soaking Emma's words in. “You adopted him and loved him," Emma tells her. "That's more than a lot of parents manage." 

“Sometimes I think it isn’t enough,” Regina says, shaking her head. “I have done my best to equip him for the world he will face. But it isn’t fair on him. It’s… _cruel_. He found out last year about the adoption, and he's been resentful ever since.” 

Emma squeezes her hand, and lets Regina talk. 

“He has always wanted to fly,” Regina says. It's like a dam has burst within her, and she has to get all the words out. “He kept trying again and again. When kids his age were beginning to play around with brooms, he couldn't even get his broomstick to get off the ground. Once, he jumped off a tree on his broomstick and broke his leg in three places.” 

Emma can understand that. Flying is the only time she feels completely at ease with herself. It's something she's wanted to long before she knew the truth about her magic.    

“I was _so scared_. And he’s so stubborn, _so_ reckless, sometimes,” Regina says with a shudder. Emma holds her hand a little tighter.   

To look on, always from the outside — that's never easy. Even more so when you're just a kid, asking questions that can have no answers, trying to figure out your place in the world. 

“I’m sorry, I — I didn’t meant to unload everything on you.” Regina says. “It was —” She wipes at her face with her other hand, the one that  _isn't_ holding Emma's. Her eyes are red and swollen from tears. 

“No,” Emma cuts her short, before she can apologize again. “I’m glad you talked to me. I’m, well. I’m _here_ if you ever need to, again.” 

Emma’s no good with words but she can be here, at least. Be _present,_ and listen, should Regina ever need her to.    

“It’s very late. I can prepare the guest room for you tonight,” Regina says, suddenly hostess-like, even if she makes no move to pull her hand away from Emma's. 

“You don’t have to,” Emma says, awkward. “I can just head home."

"I'm well aware that you have been spending most nights in your office, Coach Swan," Regina tells her. "While I'm all for a coach who works hard for my team, I'm going to have to insist that you get a good night's sleep."

“All right,” Emma says. There's no arguing with Regina when she speaks in  _that_ tone. 

 

*

 

Henry wakes her up in the morning, poking at Emma with a finger until she’s forced to open her eyes and say, “What time is it?”

Regina’s guest bed is nice and comfortable, much like the rest of the furniture in her house. It’s a house meant to be _lived_ _in_ , with little touches of the people who inhabit the house here and there. There’s a few books in the bookshelf, their pages yellowed and well-worn. There’s a photograph of Henry and Regina on the wall. Henry is practically a baby in the photo, his cheeks plump and red and his smile missing a few teeth. Regina in the photo keeps pressing kisses on his forehead, looking happier than Emma has ever seen her.

“It’s past eight,” Henry tells her. “Mom says I should wake you up for breakfast.”

“ _Past eight?_ ” Emma throws off the covers, nearly falling over in her hurry to get out of bed.

“Relax,” Henry says, grinning. “Mom already told Lancelot that you’ll miss practise today, it’s _fine_.”

Emma breathes a sigh of relief at that. She has done her best to set a good precedent about being present and punctual. It would not do to fall back into old habits.

He’s waiting for her when she emerges out of the shower, comfortably settled on the unmade bed and flipping through the pages of a copy of _Hippogryffs and Centaurs: A Journey Across Central America_. He puts the book aside and looks at her, thoughtful. He looks like a mini-Regina with that expression, Emma thinks, helplessly charmed, yet again, by this little family of theirs.  

“Mom said she told you about —”

“Your adoption?” Emma says, cutting him short. “Yeah, she did.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” Henry blurts. His eyes are wide and fearful, as though he expects Emma to dismiss him, now and forever, now that she knows that he may never have magic.

Emma’s heart aches. She moves towards the bed and kneels, in one fluid motion, so that they’re eye-to-eye. “Kid, there’s _nothing_ wrong with you, okay?”

“But— ”

“No buts,” Emma says. “You know I grew up in the no-maj world, right? Most people out there don’t have magic, and they’re doing just _fine_.”

Henry nods, still hesitant. “I’m sorry about last night,” he says. “I just wanted to see if I could fly on my own.”

“You’ve already said that,” she tells him. Emma reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, and then musses his hair until he protests. But he’s smiling now, seemingly reassured. “You’re still a freak, though,” Emma says, pursing her lips in mock-seriousness. “I mean, what sort of a nerd likes homework?”

“It’s important to know things, Emma,” he tells her with the same mock-seriousness, but his eyes are very bright, smiling.

 

*  


Regina has made them breakfast: a simple eggs on toast and bacon breakfast that is, without question, the best breakfast Emma has had in a while.

Emma all but inhales the food, conscious of the way Regina is looking at her, her expression unreadable. Perhaps she’s just thinking about how _rude_ Emma is, gobbling her breakfast up like a pig. But it’s hard to stop when the food is this good, and Regina doesn’t seem to mind her taking another helping of eggs.

She reaches for her hand again, right before Emma takes her leave. “Thank you, for everything,” she tells Emma, a small, genuine smile on her face.

Emma isn’t sure what she says in response, because she doesn't think she's capable of coherent thought or speech when Regina keeps holding her hand like that. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not like the cavalier way the HP canon treats folks with no magical ability or JKR's ridiculous and offensive attempt to equate Squibs with black people (no really, there are references to Squib Rights Marches) in her US canon.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

_Storybrooke’s success under Emma Swan will go down as one of the greatest achievements in sport, never mind the insular world of US Quidditch. As the mind wanders forward to Saturday evening’s home game against the [Camelot Knights], and the moment when Lancelot Morgan steps forward to pick up that coveted League Championship trophy, the obvious question to ask is: how on earth have they done it?_

_The truth is that even those on the inside at Storybrooke shake their heads in disbelief, half-expecting to rub their eyes one morning and realise it was all a dream. Nobody at Storybrooke would dare to claim that they saw this coming, yet that is not to say that they struggle to come up with reasons why everything has spectacularly fallen into place, chief among them being the exhilarating mix of team spirit and talent within a group of players who possess a rare commodity in a game increasingly awash with money and fast going the way of the more famous Quidditch leagues across the waters: hunger._

 

 -  _ _August Wayne Booth, Quidditch Weekly__

  

_“I’ve won tournaments, yeah, but I would be lying if I didn’t say that this is the greatest achievement of my career [players cheer in the background]. This is the greatest achievement of my career. I couldn’t be prouder that it’s as a part of this team. Everyone’s worked so hard for this. Nobody believe that we could do this, but here we are, the champions and deservedly so.”_

 

__\- Lancelot, Captain, Storybrooke Sirens_ _

 

 

 

 

The Storybrooke Sirens beat the Boston Legends 230-140 at home, making, finally, to the elusive thirty points milestone, mandated by their coach, Emma Swan. The gallery erupts in joy, impromptu — and possibly illegal, considering the town’s fire safety norms — fireworks lighting up the night sky in shades of red and gold. 

And with that victory, the Storybrooke Sirens scramble to the top of the League Championship table for the first time in forty years.

 **IT’S MAGIC!** reads the _Storybrooke Mirror_ the morning after, while the _American Quidditch Weekly_ waxes poetic about **THE REMARKABLE RISE OF THE STORYBROOKE SIRENS**. Quidditch pundits spend hours debating whether or not the poor form of the Sweetwater All-Stars — last year’s champions — and the current state of financial mess at the Arizona Thunderbirds have contributed to Storybrooke’s sudden rise to the top.   

Regina cries. There’s no way for her to deny this, considering the sheer number of witnesses at the stadium. She bursts into tears and has to be escorted out by an equally teary-eyed Marian, earning herself a separate spread in the _Storybrooke Mirror_ ( **THE ICE QUEEN MELTS! EXCLUSIVE PHOTOGRAPHS INSIDE!** ) the following day.

Jacinda does not allow Sidney Glass inside her office afterwards, despite his best efforts to secure an interview.

“Ms. Mills won’t see anyone right now,” Jacinda says, much to Glass’ disappointment.  “Why don’t you talk to the coach instead?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Tremaine,” Glass snaps. “And besides, the Swan is monosyllabic. You think my readers want to read _that_?”

The _Mirror_ , nonetheless, sells out as the Quidditch fraternity — small and insular as it is — begins to wake up to the fact that something remarkable is underway in that faraway little town in Maine, and that the protagonists of this story are none other than a ragtag bunch of perpetual underdogs, forever destined to languish in the bottom of the league table.

That is, until now.

The world, one might say, begins to wake up to the Storybrooke Sirens.

 

***

 

“Look, I’m all for fun. You know I’m a fun person. I’m _known_ for having fun.” Emma Swan is rambling, gesturing wildly with her hands while she tries to make her point. It’s rather entertaining, but Regina has to cut her short. The pile of paperwork in front of her won’t manage itself.  

“Your point, Coach?” 

“I just don’t think we need these distractions right now,” Emma says. “This is _not_ the time.” She folds her arms in front of her, stubborn, and looks down at Regina as though _daring_ her to disagree. 

Swan is spoiling for a fight, Regina can tell. 

On an average day, this absolute _mulish_ resistance mostly infuriates Regina. It’s almost as though Emma, in her juvenile need to strain against authority, forgets that she _is_ a part of what makes up authority when it comes to the Storybrooke Sirens.  

It has often made Regina’s job difficult, even if a part of her — not that she will _ever_ admit this out loud — enjoys butting heads with Emma Swan.  

It’s different this time, because for once, Regina agrees with Emma. This _isn’t_ the time. They _can’t_ afford distractions, not when they just have eight more games to go. Eight crucial games, after getting this far. Regina can _almost_ taste it, the victory, the place in history that awaits them if they can just hang on and forge ahead, playing their natural game.  

She isn’t used to winning things or even _hoping_ , but this time, they’re poised on the brink of… something. Something big, something that will change their entire lives.   

“We do have some obligations to our financiers, Coach Swan,” Regina says, dry. She takes off her glasses and places them on the papers she was reviewing. She has a feeling she isn’t going to get anything done at the moment.

“And do those obligations include bending to their every whim, _especially_ when it could hurt our chances at a time like this?” Emma says, furious. 

“They have said they wish to felicitate the players,” Regina says. “It is not an unreasonable request.”

In other words, Mal Blake has asked for a party, and a party she shall get. Regina is not exactly in a position to turn down the very generous woman who ensured Storybrooke could _afford_ someone like Lancelot, or Emma herself, for that matter.  

“ _Now?_ ” Emma Swan says, furious. “With eight matches to go? With Fitchburg breathing down our neck?”

“I don’t disagree, Emma,” Regina says, shaking her head. She’s already had this argument with Marian and she’s _tired_. “You’re right.”

And just like that, Emma Swan deflates. It’s almost comical, the way her jaw slackens. “Wait, really?” she says, sounding genuinely surprised. “Did you just say that I’m _right_?” 

Regina should not find it as charming as she does. This has been a persistent problem of late. 

Something has changed between them, ever since the time Regina dragged her into the forest (Emma went, _willingly)_  to look for Henry and spilled out her heart to her in the process. It _should_ embarrass her, but Emma Swan has a way about her that disarms her and puts her at ease. 

Perhaps it’s just that Regina hasn’t had a friend outside of Marian or her perpetually-at-New York-or-London sister in a very long time. Emma Swan is… a friend. That must be it. 

“I’m also saying that we don’t really have an option but to have our players attend the event,” she tells Emma, unable to help the smile that pulls at the corners of her lips. “But yes, you’re right. It _is_ a distraction we could do without.”  

“I can’t believe this,” Emma says. She’s half-sitting on top of Regina’s desk now, but Regina can’t bring herself to reprimand her. She’s honest-to-god pouting, like the overgrown child that she is. “Here I thought I was going to get to call you frivolous and irresponsible.” 

Regina can feel her smile grow wider. “Dream on, Swan,” she says. 

“Do I at least get to set a curfew for the team?” Emma says, sounding very put upon. She’s fiddling with the spyglass that Regina keeps on her desk, and Regina has to slap her hand away. 

“I can negotiate a curfew, yes,” Regina tells her.

That gets her one of Emma Swan’s blinding smiles, wide and infectious.

 

*

 

True to her signature style, Mal Blake throws a grand party for the Sirens. 

They have taken over the Town Hall, which is practically unrecognizable thanks to Mal’s characteristic over the top decor. There are miniature dragons throwing up magical fire and handsome waiters in golden uniform, serving exotic wine and champagne. 

It’s the sort of thing that Storybrooke hasn’t witnessed since the demise of Cora Mills, featuring the who’s who of wizarding sports and the rich and powerful — or at least, the folks who get along with Mal, anyway. There’s celebrity journalists from New York, including that smarmy Booth guy who imagines he’s god’s gift to womankind and insists on flirting with Regina whenever they meet. 

“I’m going to write the Sirens’ story,” Booth tells her after cornering her at the bar. “It’s going to be my best work, I can already tell. Nothing fires up the muse like a good underdog story.” 

He looks at her expectantly, like he expects her to fall over and thank him for his generosity.

“That’s… interesting,” Regina tells him, offering him her best politician’s smile. “Best of luck writing it.” 

These are the sort of people _Leopold_ hob-nobbed with. Regina despised them then, and she despises them now. She doesn't want to have anything to do with any of them. 

She misses her sister, who has chosen to remain in New York citing 'important work’. Considering the general state of her relationship with Mal, it's probably for the best — Regina _or_ the Sirens cannot afford to offend the people whose money has kept them afloat.  

The Championship might change all of that, but for now, Regina will be cautious. 

Instead, she has Marian for support, who's hissing, “Don't stare daggers at the man, Regina, _for god's sake_ , we need the press on our side,” in Regina's ears, even as Regina tries and fails to be nice to most people on the guest list.  

It's grows worse when the team makes an entrance, resplendent in their formal Storybrooke Sirens attire that bears the DragonFire logo. Most of them look awkward in it, more at home at the grounds with their broomsticks than in the company of the rich and famous. 

Lancelot, at least, is a natural. Once again, Regina is _proud_ of her own ability to clinch deals as she watches him smile through the excruciating conversations with the rich businessmen, who explain strategy and _going for the kill_ to a man who has spent a lifetime playing for some of the best Quidditch teams in the world.  

Emma is _not_ a natural, judging by how comically uncomfortable she appears in the company of the men and women who swarm around her, attempting to make conversation. She's in formal attire like the rest of the team, and every time someone shows up with a camera, she winces. It's charming, really, but Regina is _not_ going to think about why she finds most things about Emma Swan charming of late. Theirs is a professional relationship, no, maybe a friendship —

There's _no reason_ why Regina should bristle at Mal looking at Emma like she's an exotic creature she would very much like to devour, _no reason whatsoever_.  

“I’ve heard _so much_ about you, Swan,” she says, looking her up and down, appreciation written all over her face. “You look different up close.” 

“Thank you,” Emma says, clutching her drink. 

“You never mentioned how adorable she is, Regina,” Mal tells her. “I would have come and introduced myself much earlier if I'd known.” 

Regina is fairly certain her smile is more like a grimace at this point. 

“She _does_ clean up well,” Cruella says, all but purring at Emma, who looks like she's ready to make a run for it. 

It's not surprising. Cruella likes her women sporty. Her on again off again romance with Ursula Merryweather has been the staple of tabloid gossip for years now. 

The Sirens accept their tokens of appreciation from Mal — little fire-breathing dragon trophies with their names on it, and the DragonFire logo on top — and bid a hasty retreat. 

Emma watches them longingly, wishing, no doubt, she could leave with them. Regina can almost sympathize.

 

*

She's busy making small talk with a few of Mal’s guests from New York — a Quodpot star past his prime and a couple of businessmen — when she hears the commotion near the entrance of the hall. It can't be, _no_ , there's _no way_ — 

“Regina, _please_ _don't_ ,” whispers Marian into her ears. “Don’t do whatever it is that you’re thinking of doing.” 

There’s no mistaking Snow White or that idiot husband of hers, making a fashionably late entrance like the celebrity couple they like to pretend they are. 

“ _Who invited them?_ ” Regina hisses, not caring if she might be overheard.  

It must be Mal — has to be. Mal _enjoys_ this sort of drama.  

She walks up to Snow at Marian’s nudging, greeting her with a frosty smile. “Hello, Snow,” she says. “Welcome to Storybrooke.” 

Snow, damn her, is sugary sweet as always, _genuine_ as though she actually _likes_ Regina, as though she _doesn’t know_ she’s not welcome anywhere near Storybrooke. “Congratulations,” she tells Regina, entirely earnest. “You’ve earned this. It’s truly been remarkable, watching the Sirens perform.” 

“Yes, it has,” Regina says, gritting her teeth. Coming from Snow, that’s a backhanded compliment, no doubt reminding her of their defeat in the last game. 

It is _impossible_ to believe that she doesn’t hate Regina — that she isn’t daming Regina with every word of praise.  

It’s what Regina would do. It’s what Regina does, every single day.

She _hates_ Snow White. She _hates_ her awful father, she’s _glad_ he’s dead. She’s _not_ sorry that she tried to save her father’s club from his legacy of profligacy and mismanagement. She’s _not_ sorry that it offended the so-called fans. She doesn’t give a damn about their sentiments. She hates every single one of them, and she wants them to rot in _hell_.  

Everyone is looking at them like they’re enjoying Regina’s mini-meltdown. She has to get out of here, before she loses control and says something awful. Or worse, lashes out with magic, right here in front of a hundred guests.   

“I need air,” she tells Marian, who nods in agreement. 

“I’ll handle it,” Marian says. 

Regina makes her excuses, certain no one’s buying them, and heads outside, away from the noise and the bustle of the hall. There’s a hard to find gazebo in one secluded corner of the garden, overgrown shrubbery all around it. It’s come to Regina’s rescue on more than one occasion in the past. 

She makes her way to the gazebo, seating herself on a stone bench and _breathes_.  

She’s not sure how long she sits there, trying to get a grip over the anger that threatens to spill over and burn everything in its path. It’s a cool night out, a hint of Autumn chill in the gentle breeze. There’s no one out here save the rustling of leaves and — 

“ _Emma?_ ” 

“Sorry,” Emma Swan says, emerging out of the darkness, a sheepish smile on her face. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” 

“I needed some fresh air,” Regina tells her. 

And Emma, bless her, doesn’t pry, doesn’t ask questions, accepting Regina’s explanation at face value. She plops down on the bench with zero grace and says, “I feel you. I hate parties.” 

“Are you _hiding_ , Miss Swan?” Regina says, a genuine smile playing on her lips for the first time this evening. Her words come out more playful than Regina intended.  

She came out here to be away from everyone else, but she finds that she doesn’t mind the company. 

“Maybe?” Emma says. “Definitely. This isn’t my scene.” 

“You _do_ clean up well,” Regina says, echoing Cruella’s words from earlier that evening.   

“As do you, Madam President,” Emma says with a pleased smile. “Not to say that you don’t look good otherwise. I mean, all the time. Okay, I’ll stop now.” 

The conversation is bordering on flirtatious now, as it so often seems to do when she’s talking to Emma Swan. 

“I got us a drink,” Emma says, handing over a bottle of wine that’s almost certainly stolen from the bar. 

“Were you going to drink an entire bottle of wine on your own?” Regina says, incredulous. 

“Do you want to drink or not?” Emma says. Regina snatches the bottle from her hand in response.

They drink straight out of the bottle like a couple of truant schoolchildren, passing it back and forth without any attempt at small talk. It’s… soothing. It's exactly what Regina needed. “This reminds me of the first time I met you, Coach Swan,” Regina says, suddenly, inexplicably fond. 

“In your office?” Emma says, confused. 

Regina smiles, remembering the drunk, unfocused Emma Swan from years ago. She didn't intend to tell her this story. Not now, not ever. She didn't think there would be an occasion where she would be comfortable enough around Emma Swan to share stories of that period in her life. 

“It was after the World Cup semi-final,” she tells Emma, without bothering to clarify _which_ World Cup she means. Emma will understand. “You were drinking all by yourself in a bar. I asked you for an autograph.”

Emma’s eyes grow comically wide. “ _You_ asked for _my_ autograph?” 

“You said you’d sign my chocolate frog card only if I let you buy me a drink first,” Regina tells her. 

“That does sound like me,” Emma says ruefully. “I can’t believe I don’t remember,” she says, shaking her head. “I remember drowning my sorrows in booze, then I spoke to a beautiful woman who I may or may not have imagined — wait, _that_ was _you_?”  

“You said you hated losing,” Regina tells her. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t remember,” Emma says, still shaking her head in utter disbelief. “I mean, I don't think I could ever forget meeting someone like you.” She's looking at Regina when she says that, something more than just friendship in her eyes. 

Regina is acutely aware of how close they are to each other in this moment, their thighs brushing against each other as they gaze into each other’s eyes. She’s aware of that _pull_ between them, magical.

“Does this mean you were a fan, Ms. Mills?” Emma says softly. Her breath is warm on Regina’s cheek. 

“Perhaps I was,” Regina says. 

“And what about now? Are you still a fan?” 

“I mostly think you’re an idiot,” Regina says flatly, but she’s smiling, smiling.   

That earns her a laugh, a bright, clear laugh that makes her heart sing. She has had _way_ too much alcohol. It was that encounter with Snow White, _damn_ it.  

“Well, I’m going to do something idiotic, so here goes,” Emma says.

The kiss is definitely not idiotic. It is, in fact, the most spectacular thing that has happened to Regina in a long time, soft and slow and deep, everything she had imagined about kissing Emma Swan when Emma was just an object of explicit fantasy. It’s _more_ , because of how intimate it feels. How _right_ it feels to give in to the attraction that has never quite gone away.

They’re both breathing hard when Emma pulls away.  

“We should probably head back inside,” Regina says, unwilling to let go of Emma’s hand. 

“Yeah,” Emma says, and leans in for another kiss.  

 

*

 

The following week is a disaster. 

Regina has little time to reflect on what happened — _she kissed Emma Swan, she wants to keep kissing Emma Swan_ — because the Sirens end up losing the next match against the New York Pirates, _and_ the one after that, against an off-color Sweetwater All-Stars. They slip down to second position, with the Boston Legends and the Misthaven Wanderers breathing down their necks. Fitchburg is on top now, and the only way they _might_ salvage this if they win every single one of their remaining matches.  

It’s not impossible, no. But Regina can’t help being furious. At the Sirens, for losing. At Mal, for demanding to be catered to, against the best interests of a team she claims to support. But mostly she’s furious at herself, because _she_ allowed this, despite Emma’s explicit caution against it. _She_ allowed that accursed party to happen, falling over herself to satisfy Mal’s whims, _distracting_ the players like Emma had warned it would.  

There should be _no_ room for complacency, not when they’re this close to winning the League Championship. And now it seems like it might be slipping from their grasp, all thanks to a petty distraction that Regina shouldn’t have allowed in the first place.

Emma throws herself into work, driving the team harder than ever before. 

Regina watches them practice every day, Emma Swan right up there with the players as they go over and over the drill and the formations. And maybe her heart skips a beat when Emma spots her in the stands and pauses to wave at her, before going back to yelling at her Chasers for their lack of co-ordination. But this is no time for any of _that_. No time for distractions. 

Still, she drops by at Emma’s office that evening. They kiss on Emma’s couch, hard and tinged with desperation. It's easy, _so_ easy to fall into this, to lose herself in Emma's lips and the softness of her skin.  

At some point, Regina should probably try and have a conversation with Emma about this... kissing, but she can’t bring herself to care right now.

 

*

 

The only person _not_ stressed in the Sirens camp is Henry, who remains unflinchingly calm in the face of potential disaster. He’s still a child, unused to loss, to the possibility of things going irrevocably out of one’s grasp.  

To Regina, who has never been allowed to have a single thing she’s _truly_ wanted — at least, not until Henry — that sort of faith feels physically impossible.  

She allows him to comfort her, nonetheless, when he catches her in one particular moment of utter despair — in her office, sitting with her head covered in her hands as she considers the possibility of yet another year of _nothing_ after coming so close, and wallows.     

“We’re going to win, Mom,” he tells her, with a smile so bright that Regina can’t help but smile back at him. “I _know_ we are.”

It's easier between them, ever since that escapade of his. It's as though something changed for Henry that night, between flying that carpet into the forest and spending what must been a godawful hour or so with Mother's ghost.

Regina doesn't regret banishing her there. Not now. Not ever.  

She pulls Henry close and presses a kiss on his forehead, one that he allows with no fuss. “Your believing heart is your magic,” she tells him. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

This, she believes. With all her heart. 

He may or may not find his magical abilities someday, but Henry  _is_ magic, in ways that the magical community can scarcely comprehend. 

 

*

Perhaps it's the magic of Henry's belief, after all, but the Sirens  _do_ begin to inch back up to the top after that.

There are more kisses with Emma — stolen kisses in Regina's office, as Regina presses her up against the door and drives a knee between her legs, making her gasp. Soft kisses on the couch in Emma's office after hours, reassuring. Hard and desperate kisses in a quiet balcony, away from prying eyes.

They don't talk about the kisses, as though by mutual agreement. There are more important matters at hand, after all; matters like  _winning_ the League Championship after nearly four decades. 

It's just Regina's luck that their penultimate match is the away game with Misthaven. As the league table stands, the Sirens have the chance to grab a clear victory if they beat Misthaven this time around. A loss on the other hand might mean a complicated set of permutations and combinations, depending on a number of  _other_ factors beyond their control. Regina refuses to consider it — refuses to accept that  _that accursed team_ might snatch this away from her, just when it's at her grasp,  _finally_. 

She has given too much to Misthaven. Some of the best years of her life, her reputation, her peace of mind.

They can't have this.

She doesn't say any of this when she asks Emma to join them for dinner the night before the game, suddenly desperate for her touch. She pulls Emma to her study after Henry goes to bed, and kisses her and kisses her, pouring every bit of her frustration into her lips and her fingers.  

"This is going to be different than the last time," Emma tells her when they briefly pull apart from each other, chests heaving. "You know that, right? It _is_. It's gonna be different."  

“I know,” Regina tells her.

“We’ve _got_ this,” Emma tells her, her eyes shining with fervent belief. She takes both Regina's hands in hers, and presses them to her lips, one after the other.  

“I know,” Regina says. 

She pulls Emma back down for another kiss, because it's  _easier_ to kiss Emma than to put into words why the thought of traveling to Misthaven with the team is enough to keep her up at night. Emma doesn't _know_ that she hasn't gone back to Misthaven in all these years, that she doesn't  _want_ to step foot in that town — not now, not ever. 

She fortifies herself with Emma's kisses, because what else _can_ she do?

If she were in a position to think, Regina would perhaps be concerned about how much she's grown to depend on these stolen moments — on the feeling of Emma's arms around her, warm and solid. On this time that's theirs, and theirs alone, and <i>how much</i> that's come to mean to her.

But then, middle ground has never been Regina's forte. She falls hard and fast. Always has, always will. 

Emma has her own history to make up for — for a past littered with her own failings, and all the times she let everyone down, most of all, herself.  
  
When she's in Emma's arms, it's almost possible to believe that they might actually _build_ something together this time.  

 

*

 

Regina fusses over Henry before they leave for Misthaven, straightening his scarf and brushing imaginary lint off his robes until he protests. “ _Come on_ , Mom, we’re getting _late_ ,” he whines.

He has been full of nervous energy all morning, so much so that she’d had to insist that he eat everything on his plate or she would be forced to leave him at home —  a threat that worked wonders, as it turned out.

His excitement helps her keep sane, keep her focus on the things that _matter_.  Like the fact that they are here, _now_. That this distant dream might be within their grasp.

She thinks of her father, and his pride and joy, the Storybrooke Sirens. She thinks of the town has waited for so long for this moment.

It feels like they’re poised for something great — like this fairytale might indeed come true. She looks at Henry, his eyes bright and sparkling and so very dashing in his little red and gold attire, and she dares believe.

Marian is waiting for them in front of Granny’s, where the Portkey is.

“Ready, guys?”

Regina _isn’t ready_ , no. Regina will _never_ be ready for this. But they’re going to Misthaven, and they might just win this thing.

A moment later, they’re in front of the familiar premises of the Misthaven Wanderers’ stadium, all decked in the colours of the local team. There’s a giant image of their dear, departed former owner, flanked by Snow White on one side and David Nolan on the other.

Regina holds Henry’s hand tight, and walks in with her head held high. If there are whispers — no, there _are_ whispers, there _are_ a hundred heads turning in her direction, whispering, _Isn’t that the Evil Queen?_ — then she doesn’t care.

There are too many memories in Misthaven that she will never quite manage to erase, but Regina is here to make _new_ memories. They might just win this thing.

 

*

 

“Hello, Regina,” Snow says. “You look well.”

Snow’s smile this time is tight, brittle — none of the sickly sweetness that she likes to lay on as a part of her helpless damsel act. _Good_ , Regina thinks. Good. It suits her.

“Hello, Snow,” Regina says. She will not _smile_ at Snow White, not even for the cameras. “You as well.”

The tension between them is thick and palpable. Henry squirms, uncomfortable with the scrutiny he’s suddenly receiving.

It had to be that _this_ place, of all places. They might still have another match to go, but _this is it_ , this is  _where_ Regina's fate will be decided, once and for all. She feels rooted to the spot, unable to move or breathe. Her heart beats faster, faster, as though she's been running. She holds on to Henry's hand as though it's her anchor, the only thing that will keep her from drowning. 

Emma’s voice cuts through the haze, clear and bright. “Hey there, guys! We’ve been waiting for you for _ages_!”

“Emma!” Henry brightens, dropping Regina’s hand to run towards her.

“You alright?” Emma murmurs as she draws near, solicitous. She's more observant than Regina gives her credit for. 

“I’m fine,” Regina tells her, although Emma doesn't look like she believes her. She should not have accompanied the team to Misthaven. 

And Emma, wise, _kind_ Emma, holds her hand and says, “We got this. You know that, right? We _got_ this." She squeezes her hand, firm. 

 

*

 

The stadium is packed to capacity, the crowd a sea of white and grey chanting, “Misthaven Wanderers! Misthaven Wanderers!”

Henry, of course, is thrilled to the very core. Their box seats make for prime viewing, and he soaks it all in with the excitement of a boy at the biggest sporting event of his young life. He points at every little thing, from the funny hats some of the Misthaven supporters are wearing, to the large enchanted blackboard flashing adverts for everything under the sun.

Every now and then the audience bursts into song, singing familiar tunes that have haunted her nightmares.

“We’ve had our ups and downs,” roars the crowd in one voice, “But we’ll never let you go.” On and on, it keeps singing, waving flags to the beat of trumpets and drums, breaking into joyous applause as one song ends and another begins.  

There’s a solid block of red and gold in the right-hand side of the stadium, a pocket of dedicated Storybrooke supporters who have traveled all the way to watch their team, poised on the verge of history. Regina keeps her eyes trained on them, oddly grateful for their presence. If there’s Evil Queen banners out there in the stands, she doesn’t want to know.  

She’s helpless before the onslaught of memories: loss after loss after loss, in this very stadium. The jubilant crowds in white and grey transform into the dejected crowds that never stopped showing up, even as Misthaven spiralled and fell far beyond anyone’s control.

She remembers standing on the field next to Leopold’s coffin, draped in the Misthaven Wanderers flag. Regina played the grieving widow to the hilt, a sobbing Snow at her side.

Death made a martyr out of Leopold, the fact of his incompetence brushed to the side even as Regina sank under its burden, scrambling to hold together a fast-sinking ship.

The day she announced her plans to sell the stadium to recover some of their losses, graffiti had appeared all over the grounds: **DEATH TO THE EVIL QUEEN**.

It took them hours to remove the charms and get rid of the graffiti.

She didn’t want Leopold’s legacy any more than she’d wanted to be his wife. She wanted it all to _crash and burn_.

“They’re here!” Henry’s voice cuts through the haze like a beam of sunlight, and Regina looks up just in time to spot the seven figures in red and gold, shooting into the arena on their broomsticks as the crowd cheers. “Go _Storybrooke_!”

Emma Swan is a small figure on the ground, looking up at the players.   

 

*

 

Later, Regina won’t remember the details: the ninety odd minutes blurring together in an indistinguisable whole.

Henry’s stories will change with every telling — and there will be a lot of them. In his stories, like in many other fan retellings, Lancelot will attain the standing of a god, even if the American Quidditch Championship is hardly the pinnacle of his rather illustrious career. Yasmin will be likened to the legendary Amanda Applebottom, with fans swearing that she has more than _just_ one pair of hands. Mulan will make become one of the most sought after Seekers in America, and an immediate shoo-in for the national team. August Wayne Booth — much to Regina's displeasure — will earn a six figure book deal out of this.

Regina won’t remember the details, though she’ll remember flashes of it here and there.

It begins with Misthaven on the ascendant, buoyed by home support and a trio of Chasers in fine form. They’re a masterclass in small, quick passes, the Quaffle barely visible in their midst.  

Ruby Lucas catches the Quaffle and passes it on to Nova, who passes it on to Ella and then back. They play small, quick passes between themselves, dancing past Merlin and Lancelot, who hit the Bludgers at them deadly accuracy.  

The pace is furious, and the Misthaven Chasers look like they’re about to take the game out of Storybrooke’s hands in a repeat of their previous performance.

Their Beaters play dirty, like they did the last time. Hyde is up to his usual tricks, keeping up a steady stream of abuse and under-handed moves that skirt the edge of legality. An altercation between Ali and Hyde eventually leads to a full-blown fistfight, the audience roaring in excitement. The referee screams at them for a minute straight before awarding _both_ teams penalties that Ruby Lucas and Guinevere have no problem scoring from. 

As the game progresses, the crowds grow even more raucous, following the Chasers of both teams with bated breath as they score again and again. The Chasers are on an even ground, not allowing their opponent an inch as the teams keep the scoreboard ticking in waves of attack and counter-attack. 

Once again, it has to be the Seeker who will make the difference. Merlin hits a Bludger at Aurora that nearly dislodges her from her broom. Hyde takes to shadowing Mulan, while Liam Jones aims for her head. 

There's one image that's etched in Regina's mind, an image she'll carry with herself to her dying bed: Mulan, diving, hurtling towards the Storybrooke goal in breakneck speed while Aurora Rose struggles to keep pace with her.  

The crowd erupts in one voice as Mulan holds her hand up in air, the golden Snitch gleaming for everyone to see. 

There's tears running down Regina's eyes that she's powerless to stop.

Lancelot pulls up in front of them in his broom, signalling for Henry to climb onto his. Regina forgets to tell them to be careful, forgets how to form words, even.

The massive image of Leopold White on the stands fades into large letters that read,  **STORYBROOKE SIRENS WIN LEAGUE CHAMPIONSHIP! CONGRATULATIONS!**  
  
There's fireworks going up above them in shades of red and gold. Regina sits down, and covers her face with her hands as she cries and cries. 

  
***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wizarding fashion Tumblr was a lifesaver, you guys. I like to imagine Regina was wearing something like (maybe minus hat) this at Mal's party:
> 
>  


	8. Epilogue

_Storybrooke Sirens have won the League Championship title in one of the greatest Quidditch tales of all times._

_Their 270-120 win over the Camelot Knights at home, a mere formality after their thumping victory at Misthaven the previous week, sealed what was already a stunning achievement for Emma Swan’s side. Storybrooke started the campaign as 5,000-1 outsiders for the title, after managing being demoted to League Two by a whisker for two successive seasons._  

 _Their victory has been described as a “fairytale” and the “most unlikely triumph in the history of modern Quidditch”._  

\- _US Quidditch Quarterly_

  

 _A full-house stadium at Storybrooke witnessed history as the Storybrooke Sirens capped a brilliant season with a win in their final game at home_. _Storybrooke Sirens had already claimed the series title following a victory at Misthaven last week._  

_Storybrooke Sirens captain Lancelot Morgan hoisted the League Championship trophy aloft to a burst of fireworks on Sunday as one of the sport’s most captivating stories reached it giddy climax._

  _Following a 270-120 win over Camelot Knights in their final game, the outsiders, whose exploits have captivated fans across America and beyond, got their hands on the prized trophy._  

 _After the players had been called up one by one — the biggest cheers reserved for the season’s breakout star, Seeker Hua Mulan — Morgan was handed the trophy by the Chairperson of the American Quidditch Association (AQA)._  

 _Regina Mills, President of the Storybrooke Sirens, thanked the fans in an emotional speech, and read out parts of a touching dedication written by her young son._  

 -  _ _Quidditch Weekly__

 

  
**_CHAMPIONS!_ ** **  
** **  
** _\- Storybrooke Mirror_  

 

 

The morning after bringing home the League Championship is a remarkably normal one. 

Regina wakes up in her own bed, to the sound of her regular alarm. Granted, she’s curled up next to Emma Swan, who mutters something unintelligible and rolls over, her mouth falling open as she lies flat on her back — but that’s a normal morning, now. Regina didn't see this coming. 

She pads barefoot to the window and pushes the curtains open, delighting in the sunlight that lights up the entire room and fills her heart with a radiance that she cannot name. She stands there, looking out at her beloved apple tree in full blossom until Emma groans, “Too much light. _Please_.”

“Get up,” Regina tells her, unable to wipe the wide smile off her face. “It’s morning. Rise and shine.”

“I hate mornings,” Emma says, covering her head with a pillow. “We don’t have practice today, I’m not getting out of bed until noon.” 

Emma _has_ earned that, if nothing else. Regina pulls the curtains close and pads over to the bed, pressing a brief kiss on her cheek before heading to the bathroom. 

It’s a normal morning, but nothing feels impossible anymore.

 

*

 

There are a dozen owls waiting for her downstairs, all of them bearing messages that congratulate her on their victory. One message is from Snow White, bearing an insipid note that says, 

 _Dear Regina,_  

 _Congratulations! Fairytales do come true, after all!_  

 _My heartiest congratulations to the entire team, and to your coach, Emma Swan, for making this happen._  

_Thank you for this wonderful season of Quidditch, and for teaching me to believe in miracles again._

_Yours,_

_Snow_  

She sets _that_ one on fire, ignoring the disapproving glare of the owls.

“She’s lucky I'm not sending her a Howler back,” she tells the nearest owl, a small white one that regards her with suspicious eyes. “It's none of your business, anyway.” 

There will be more of these messages at work, no doubt — all sorts of nonsense from her worst enemies about how much they love her and the Storybrooke Sirens. There will be so many things to think about, and a new season to prepare for, with all the new challenges that it will bring. There will be the World Quidditch League qualifiers, an honor she can scarcely comprehend. 

But today, for now, Regina wishes to bask — bask in the glory of the fairytale, yes. 

She's frying up some bacon when Henry shows up, sleepy-eyed and tousled and happy, judging by the wide smile he flashes at her. 

“What were you doing up so early?” He says. “I heard you in the morning.” 

“I couldn't sleep,” Regina says. “Would you like some eggs?” 

“Yes, please,” he says, eager. “Can I also get some coffee?” 

“Absolutely not,” Regina says sharply. “Pour yourself some orange juice.” 

Henry shrugs, not particularly disappointed. “It was worth a shot. Did Emma sleep over again?” 

 _That_ has her fumbling, nearly dropping the plate she places in front of Henry with his bacon and eggs. “She did,” Regina says, careful to keep her voice even. 

“Cool,” Henry says. He takes this in his stride like everything else, as though Emma sleeping over is something as ordinary as his mother making him bacon and eggs. 

She hasn't shared further details of her… her relationship with Emma, whatever that relationship might be. She hasn't found the right time _or_ the right words for it. 

“You should ask her out,” Henry says, casual.   

“What?” Regina nearly chokes on her coffee. 

“Ask her out,” Henry says. “You like her, don't you?” 

She could lie and tell him that theirs is a professional relationship, nothing more. Nothing at all. But she thinks of Emma curled up in her bed, sleeping until noon because there's no practice session to attend, the sleepy warmth of her smile and softness of early morning kisses — 

“I do like her,” she tells him, entirely honest. “I like her a lot.” 

Henry seems pleased with the response, and digs into his plate with gusto. 

“I was thinking of going to Dr. Hopper,” he volunteers after a moment. “To talk.” 

“You were?” Regina says, trying not to get ahead of herself. 

“Maybe,” Henry tells her. 

His journey — if this is indeed to be his journey, that of a boy without magic in a community that sees the lack of it as a curse — is not going to be easy, for sure. It won't be a bed of roses, it won't be _easy_ like Regina wants everything in his life to be. 

But _maybe_ is good. _Maybe_ is a start. 

There's an entire world outside that does fine without magical abilities, and who knows what it holds in store for Henry, who has his entire life ahead of him? What if he can have the best of both worlds? 

Regina isn't one for false hope or platitudes, but on this morning, the morning after their grand fairytale, nothing seems impossible. 

The truest magic lies in Henry's believing heart. 

 

*

 

She's still thinking of Henry's words when Emma finally stumbles downstairs, a little before noon. She's freshly showered and very pleased with herself, going by her wide, wide smile. 

“Henry said I should ask you out,” Regina tells her. It's easy to smile back today, easy to reach for her press a chaste kiss on her lips, comfortable and familiar. 

“He did?” Emma says. “He told me _I_ should ask _you_ out, that little nerd.” 

“My son is not a nerd, Miss Swan,” Regina says primly, even though she agrees with Emma's assessment. Henry takes after her that way. At his age, she was very much what Emma would call a nerd. “He's a curious young man who likes to know things.” 

“In other words, a nerd,” Emma says, grinning. 

“I have decided to follow his advice,” Regina says. Tomorrow, they have a grand feast to attend, courtesy the Storybrooke residents who want to celebrate their victory. Following that, it's one thing after the other — meetings with the financiers, plans for the next season, so on and so forth.

Tonight, she thinks, should be theirs. 

“Funny thing,” Emma says. “I was planning the same thing. Meet me at the grounds at seven?”

“The grounds?” 

“Do you want to go out with me or not?” Emma tells her. 

There's no arguing with that, because Regina, heaven help her, _does_.

 

*

 

The grounds are dark, deserted, quite the contrast from the events of the day before. 

It has been a conscious choice to keep no portraits of her father, nothing that will remind her of a loss that she can never, ever make up for. Her father, unlike her mother, chose to move on and not linger, so all Regina has is her memories — riding atop his shoulders while he took her around the stadium, telling her stories of the time they brought the League Championship home. 

If she closes her eyes, she can imagine him in the stands, smiling at her in that familiar way of his. _You've done well_ , she can imagine him saying. _I'm proud of you._

“Shall we?” 

She turns around to face Emma, who's grinning down at her from that accursed flying carpet, hovering just above ground. 

“Really?” Regina says, raising an eyebrow. “That thing again?” 

“Come now,” Emma tells her, her smile growing even wider. “You can't tell me you never considered a ride.” 

She stretches out her hand, and Regina takes it, hopping onto the carpet. 

“I have something for you as well,” she tells Emma, reaching inside her pocket to fish out the wooden box. 

“What is it?” Emma says. 

“Open it.” 

She’s caught Emma by surprise, Regina can tell. Her eyes grow wide with shock as she figures out what’s in the box. 

Emma picks out the card, her face glowing with childlike wonder. “You've kept it all this while?” She holds it with reverance, like it's something incredibly precious. 

“I told you I asked you for your autograph, didn't I?” Regina tells her. “I’m hardly at fault if you were too drunk to remember.” 

 _To the beautiful woman who hates losing_ , the card reads. _Your fan, Emma Swan_.  

“Well,” Emma says. “My flirting game was spot on.” 

“You had no game,” Regina tells her archly. “You were _drunk_.” 

“I got the girl, though,” Emma points out, her smile as brash as that of the little Emma figure in the card. “Give or take a decade. But it worked.” 

She's right on that account, Regina supposes, unable to keep the hopelessly fond smile off her face. 

The carpet takes off at the flick of Emma's hand, and then they're going up, up, and away, Regina's hand in Emma's and all of Storybrooke beneath them, stretched out like a town from some fairytale.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you recognize this:
> 
>  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading along! My apologies to Liverpool fans for stealing their song, and to Leicester/Leeds/Wimbledon for various pointers. Is this a story about Quidditch or football? Who knows. Someday the Gunners will win again.
> 
> Spark helped me figure out many sports-y bits, for which I owe him many thanks. Shout-out to Cass for helping me figure out a particular plot point (re. Henry). And to all my partners in the writing chat - you guys saved my life, thank you!
> 
> A special note of thanks to my partner-in-crime, Bailey, for being the best co-mod ever! We'll be back next year with more. :D 
> 
> PS. Don't forget our comments contest: http://sqsupernova.tumblr.com/post/164792441694/announcing-the-sqsn-comments-contest-a-reward-for


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